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COMIN' THRO' THE RYE 



YOUNG PEOPLE'S 

Favorite Speaker 

BEING 

A CHOICE TREASURY OF NEW AND POPULAR RECITATIONS, 

READINGS, DIALOGUES, ORIGINAL AND ADAPTED 

COMEDIES, TABLEAUX, ETC., COMPRISING 

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The Most Celebrated Authors and Composers 

INCLUDING 

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COMPILED AND EDITED BY ' ' 

HENRY DAVENPORT NORTHROP 

A'5*h:>r of '■ Peerless Reciter," " Charming Bible Stories," Etc. 



Richly Bmaeiiished with Full=Pa^e Phoiotype En^ravingfS 



National Publishing Company 

239 South American Street, 
Philadelphia, Pa. 



^% 



n 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Recejveo 

DEC. 28 1901 

/lOOFVmeHT ENTRY 

cLas^ ^KXo. No. 

/ 5^^^ 
COPY a / 



ENTERED ACCORniMC TO ACT OF CONORESS, IN THE fEAR 1901, BY 

D. Z. HOWELL 



THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONG 



ORESS, AT WASHINGTOM, D. C, U. S. 



CONTENTS. 



Descriptive Recitations. 

PAGE 

The Red Jacket .....George M. Baker Yl 

Sister's Cake Eugene Field 18 

Brace Up 19 

The Face on the Floor. H. Antoine D'Arcy 20 

Brave Kate Shelley Mrs. M. Z. Rayne 21 

Nathan Hale Eugene Geary 22 

The Haunted House Thomas Hood 23 

Over the Crossin' 24 

Don't Be in a Hurry 25 

Don't E. C. Rook 26 

The Telegram 26 

Crossing the Carry W. H. H. Murray 27 

Those Who Fail ....Nellie Barlow 29 

Niagara 30 

Katie Lee and Willie Gray'. 30 

My Mother Sir Walter Scott £1 

Which Loved Best S2 

The Best Sewing-Machine 32 

Killed George Weatherly S3 

The Three Bells John G. Whittier 33 

Pitcher or Jug M. P. Chick 34 

Gould's Signal .Bret Harte 34 

Little Christel Mrs. Mary E. Bradley 35 

The Fire-Fiend .Jessie Glenn 36 

Success in Life ...James A. Garfield 37 

The Spanish Mother.^zV Francis Hastings Doyle 38 

A Race for Life ./. L. Malloy 41 

An Arabian Tale ...., 41 

Last Charge of Ney ./. T. Heaiiley 42 

The Song of the Headlight Hardy Jackson 43 

Sir Rupert's Wife Ceorge R. Sims 44 

One Touch of Nature R.J. Burdette 47 

Little Mag's Victory George L. Catlin 48 

Remember Boys Make Men 49 

Stick to Your Bush ./. W. Watson 49 

Searching for the Slain 50 

The Little Hunchback.... yizw^j Whitcomb Riley 61 

The Burning Prairie Alice Gary 52 

Joan of Arc Thomas DeQuincy 53 

Kit Carson's Ride .Joaquin Miller 64 

Lottie Dougherty Dwight Williams 56 

Nola Kosmo Baine 57 

The Widow's Light Augusta Moore 58 

tlie Raindrops' Ride 60 



Moray and His Thirty 60 

Defence From the Charge of Tyranny 

Robespierre 61 

A Valedictory A. F. Shoals 62 

A Junior Partner Wanted M. E. Sandford 62 

Matt. F. Ward's Trial for Murder 

John J. Crittenden 63 

Kate Maloney Dagonet 64 

One Day Solitary J. T. Trowbridge 66 

Words of Welcome... 67 

Speech of Red Jacket 68 

The Old Man's Vigil..... 68 

Advice to a Young Man R.J. Burdette 69 

Boys Wanted 70 

Wealth and Work 70 

The Farmer 71 

TsarOleg .J.J. Kenealey 71 

The Baron 's Last Banquet Albert G. Greene 72 

The Stowaway Matthison 73 

Do Your Best 75 

A Boy's Opinion 76 

The Soldier's Pardon James Smith 76 

After Twenty Years 77 

Scott and the Veteran.... Bayard Taylor 78 

Mary, Queen of Scots H. G. Bell 79 

The Fireman Robert T. Conrad 81 

The Burning Ship 82 

Battle of Bunker Hill. Fredericks. Cozzens 83 

The American Flag Henry Ward Beec/ier 85 

The Circus Boy A. A. Vivyan Thomson 8tf 

The Granger's Wife ./. W. Donovan 87 

Life Is What We Make It Orville Dewey 82 

A Stray Child Eliza Sproat Turner 89 

The Vulture of the Alps 90 

The Progress of Humanity Charles Sumner 91 

Two Loves and a Life William Sawyer 92 

A Judge's Temperance Lecture 93 

The Miser George W. Cutter 94 

True Heroism 95 

The Battle of Morgarten Felicia D. Hcmans 95 

A Voyage and a Haven Francis C. Hoey 97 

A Brother's Tribute 99 

Something Great 200 

Penn's Monument R.J. Burdette 101 

Daniel Periton's Ride Albion W. Tourgee 102 

A New Year's Deed.-t...,. ^.Gertrude Smith 104 

1 



CONTENTS. 



The Blind Poet's Wife Edwin Colter 106 

The Engine Driver's Story^ W. Wilkins 109 

The Venice of the Aztecs W. H. Prescott 110 

The Flight for Life William Sawyer 111 

Lady Wentworth H, W. Longfellow 112 

A.n Incident of the War Harry W. Kimball 114 

The Idiot Lad Robert W, Overton 115 

Ancient and Modern OrsLtory. Benson N. Wyman 117 

Scipio Walters. Replinger 118 

Rodney's Ride Elbridge S, Brooks 119 

The Indians Joseph Story 120 

The Diamond Wedding 121 

Xerxes at the Hellespont R, C. French 122 

The Last Redoubt Alfred Austin 123 

The Heroism of the Pilgrims Rufus Choate 124 

Little Rocket's Christmas Vandyke Brown 125 

The Wreck Charles Dickens 127 

Supposed Speech of Regnlus Elijah Kellogg 128 

Nell Robert Buchanan 130 

The Lightkeeper'b Daughter. J^r^j A. Goodwin 131 

Popular Elections George M'Duffie 132 

The Gladiator 133 

Ginevra Sam,uel Rogers 134 

The Dynamiter's Daughter.^. Stanway Jackson 135 

Bernardo Del Carpio Felicia D, Hemans 138 

Burning of the Lexington Milford Bard 139 

Pompeii 140 

What is a Gentleman 141 

A Boy Hero 142 

Sal Parker's Ghost Edwin Colter 142 

Foundering of the Dolphin C. E. Reed 145 

Mountains E. M. Morse 146 

From the Wreck Adam Lindsay Gordon 147 

Home 150 

Simon Grub's Dream 150 

The Coronation Pageant of Anne Boleyn 

/. A. Froude 152 

The Roman Sentinel Ward M. Florence 153 

The Stage-Driver's Story 154 

The Miser's Will George Birdseye 157 

The Queen of Prussia's Ride A. L. A. Smith 158 

The Martyr of the Arena 158 

The Sioux Chief's Daughter Joaquin Miller 159 

Recitations With Music. [ 

*'Abide With Me" S. H, Thayer 161 

Twickenham Ferry 162 

Two Little Rogues 163 

The Drowning Singer 164 

Ben Bolt Thomas Dunn English 165 

Shells of Ocean ./. W. Merry 166 

Isle of Beauty Thomas H. Bayly 167 

The Exile of Erin Thomas Campbell 168 

Days of Absence Rousseau 169 



VAO« 

The Low-Backed Car. Samuel Lover 170 

Love's Young Dream Thomas Moore 171 

Araby's Daughter Tho*nas Moore 172 

I Wandered by the Brookside.^«:A</'" -^'.Milnes 173 

Katy's Letter Luay Dufferin 174 

Mary of the Wild Moor. 176 

Pathetic Recitations. 

A Tale of the Atlantic Coast George Zeagles 17? 

After the Battle V, Stuart Mosby 179 

A Fairy Tale E, F. Turner VJ^ 

The Glacier-Bed Emilia Aylmer Blake 181 

" Help Me Aross, Papa" 183 

The Peculiar Neighbor... //'^jrrzV^ M, Spaulding 184 

A Depot Incident Gertrude Garrison 185 

The Pauper Girl Georgene Traver 187 

Absalom Nathaniel P. Willis 188 

A Brave Boy 189 

Childless ^ Ben Wood Davis 191 

The Death of the Old Squire 192 

Death of Little Nell , Charles Dickens 194 

Retribution ..„. 195 

The Aged Prisoner 196 

A Last Look George R. Sims 197 

The Fading Leaf. Gail HamtUon 19£ 

''Limpy Tim" T. Harley 200 

The Dying Boy John B. Gough 201 

Charity's Meal... 202 

Death of Little Jo Charles Dickens 203 

The Singer's Climax 205 

"Good Night, Papa" 206 

Shall We Know Each Other There? 207 

Tommy's Death-Bed 208 

Lost and Found Hamilton Aide 209 

The Last of the Choir 210 

Sairy Jackson's Baby 211 

Little Dot 213 

Sister and 1 213 

Gualberto's Victory Eleanor C. Donnelly 215 

Grandma's Wedding-Day 216 

In the Bottom Drawer 217 

Sentence of Death on the High Seas 217 

Save the Other Man Margaret J. Preston 219 

The Old Clock Against the Wall 220 

Guilty or Not Guilty 220 

Only a Curl E. B Browning 221 

What is That to Thee Thomas D.James 222 

On the Other Train 223 

Hannah Binding Shoes ^....Lucy Larcotn 224 

Humorous Recitations. 

What the Little Gid Said 225 

The Landlord's Visit DeWitt C, Lockwood 226 

Give Thanks Fer What? W, T. Croffut 227 



CONTENTS. 



Miltiades Peterkin Paul John Brownjohn 228 

The Emancipation of Man 229 

Trouble Borrowers 230 

Mumford's Pavement 231 

My First Recital W. A. Eaton 232 

Baby in Church 235 

The Bicycle and the Pup 235 

Pat's Love Joe Tot, Jr. 236 

>Ierry Mike 236 

Saved by a Ghost Eben E. Rexford 1Z1 

WidderBudd 239 

Mr. Sandscript's Slide Down Hill 240 

Ain't He Cute 241 

What Adam Missed 241 

Gunn'sLeg 242 

Treadwater Jim Samuel W. Small 243 

Experience With a Refractory Cow 244 

The Railroad Crossing Hezekiah Strong 245 

The First Client Irwin Russell 246 

The Movement Cure for Rheumatism 

R. /. Burdette 247 

She Meant Business -,, 249 

The Wife-Hunting Deacon L. D. A. Suttle 250 

His Flying Machine 251 

Mr. Hoolahan's Mistake 252 

Jester Condemned to Death Horace Smith 253 

Ivove Under Difficulties 254 

Mr. Bowser Takes Precautions 254 

He Worried About It Lyman C. Abbott 256 

Jack Hopkins' Story Charles Dickens 257 

The Widow O'Shane's Rint 258 

The Woman Next Door 259 

The Spoopendykes 260 

A Smooth Day Joe Tot, Jr. 261 

The Cow and the Bishop..6'^c>. Alfred Toivnsend 262 

Kate 263 

Sam Weller's Valentine Charles Dickens 264 

The Lost Penny 266 

Two Visits ...N. E. M. Hatheway 266 

Miss Malony on the Chinese Question 

Mary Mapes Dodge 267 

The Knife of Boyhood ..Louise Upham 268 

Not Guilty (?) ./. W. Hatton 269 

The Cat's Bath 270 

Tke Queer Little House „...,. 271 



Reverie in Church Geo. A. Baker, Jr. 271 

Baby's Logic Elizabeth IV. Bellamy 272 

Abner's Second Wife 272 

McCalla and the Widdy 273 

The Huskin' Will F. McSparran 273 

The Fancy Work Maiden 5. W. Foss 274 

The Reason Why 27f 

A Bit of Shopping for the Country 27£ 

Mattie's Wants and Wishes Grace Gordon 276 

Hattie's Views on Housecleaning 277 

Pat's Wisdom 277 

Modern Education 277 

The Owl-Critic .James T. Field 27i 

The Reason Why 279 

Song of the All-Wool Shirt 280 

There Once Was a Toper 280 

A Great Fit Orpheus C. Kerr 281 

The Hypochondriac Dr. Valentine 282 

The Chickeui 283 

Aunty Doleful' s Visit Mary K. Dallas 283 

Mr. Caudle and 'Ais Sec^^nd Wife 

Douglas Jerrold 284 

A Woman's Pocket ^.,.. ./. M. Bailey 285 

Baby's Soliloquy 28a 

A Disturbed Reverie 287 

A Yankee in Love Alf Burnett 287 

Dialogues and Tableaux. 

Young America Mrs. T. Starr King 28§ 

The Destiny of the Empress Josephine 

Mrs. F. F. Barritt 291 

Mary Maloney's Philosophy 294 

Recipe for Potato Pudding F. M. Whicher 295 

The Rival Orators 298 

Little Red Riding-Hood 300 

Floral Offerings 304 

Brought to Trial for Blowin' 305 

Courtship Under Difficulties 307 

How She Cured Him 310 

Christmas Eve 312 

Four Celebrated Characters 314 

Tableaux 316 

The Train to Mauro S. A. Frost 317 

Constitution and By-Laws for Lyckums 321 



PROGRAMMES FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS 

MANUAL OF PARLLA.MENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE 



329 
.330 



Important Rules. 



r^-^^RATORY in all its refinement, belongs to 
lS^/J no particular people, to the exclusion of 
others ; nor is it the gift of nature alone ; 
but, like other acquirements, it is the 
reward of arduous efforts, under the guidance of 
consummate skill. Perfection, in this art, as 
well as in all others, is the work of time and 
labor, prompted by true feeling, and guided by 
correct thought. 

Elocution is not, as some erroneously suppose, 
something artificial in tones, looks and gestures, 
tliat may be learned by imitation. The princi- 
ples teach us — to exhibit truth and nature dressed 
to advantage; its objects are, to enable the 
reader, and speaker to manifest his thoughts, 
and feelings, in the most pleasing, perspi<:uous 
and forcible manner, so as to charm the affec- 
tions, enlighten the understanding, and leave the 
deepest, and most permanent impression, on the 
mind of the attentive hearer. 

Elocution is an art that teaches you how to 
manifest your feelings and thoughts to others, in 
such a way as to give them a true idea, and ex- 
pression of how, and what, you feel and think; 
and, in so doing, to make them feel and think as 
you do. Its object is, to enable you to commu- 
nicate to the hearers, the whole truth, just as it 
is ; in other words, to give you the ability to do 
perfect justice to the subject, to them, and to 
yourself. 

Reading should be a perfect facsimile of 
correct speaking ; and both exact copies of real 
life; hence, read just as you would naturally 
speak on the same subject, and under similar 
circumstances ; so that, if any one should hear 
y»u, without seeing you, he could not tell 
whether you were reading or speaking. Remem- 
ber that nothing is denied to industry and perse- 
verance ; and that nothing valuable can be 
obtained without them. 

Curran, a celebrated Irish orator, presents us 
with a signal instance of what can be accom- 
plished by assiduity and perseverance ; his enun- 
ciation was so precipitate and confused, that he 
was called ** stuttering Jack Curran." To over- 
•ome his numerous defects, he devoted a portion 

4 



of every day to reading and reciting aloud, 
slowly and distinctly, some of the most eloquent 
extracts in our language ; and his success was so 
complete, that among his excellencies as a 
speaker, was the clearness of his articulation, 
and an appropriate intonation, that melodized 
every sentence. 

Let the position be erect, and the body 
balanced on the foot upon which you stand; 
banish all care and anxiety from the mind ; let 
the forehead be perfectly smooth, the lungs 
entirely quiescent, and make every effort from 
the abdominal region. To expand the thorax 
and become straight, strike the palms of the 
hands together before, and the backs of them 
behind, turning the thumbs upward ; do all with 
a united action of the body and mind ; be in 
earnest, but husband your breath and strength ; 
breathe often, and be perfectly free, easy, inde - 
pendent, and natural. 

Do not hurry your enunciation of words, pre- 
cipitating syllable over syllable, and word over 
word ; nor melt them together into a mass of 
confusion, in pronouncing them ; do not abridge 
or prolong them too much, nor swallow nor 
force them ; but deliver them from your vocal 
and articulating organs, as golden coins from the 
mint, accurately impressed, perfectly finished, 
neatly and elegantly struck, distinct, in due suc- 
cession, and of full weight. 

Speak with your face. You know from obser- 
vation how persons look when surprised, angered, 
grieved, terror-stricken, happy, courageous, reso- 
lute, etc. Let every emotion be portrayed by 
your face and features according as the thought 
and sentiment require it. 

Speak with your arms, hands, eyes, and in 
short, with your whole body. Gesture aids ex- 
pression ; it should be graceful ; emphatic when 
required ; preceding slightly the sentiment you 
are to express ; and given only when it will add 
to the effect. 

Cultivate and strengthen your vuice by tbe 
constant practice of reading aloud, prolonj^ing 
the vowel sounds, and taking in full breathe, 
thus expanding the lungs. 



NoMS De Plume of Authors 



ASSUMED NAMB, REAI, NAMB 

A Country Parson . . . Archbishop Whately 

Agate Whitelaw Reid 

A. K. H. B. . . . . . . Rev. A. K. H. Boyd 

A. L. O. B Miss Charlotte Tucker 

Alfred Crowquill A. H. Forrester 

Americus Dr. Francis Lieber 

Amy I/Othrop Miss Anna B. Warner 

American Girl Abroad . Miss Trafton 
Artemus Ward .... Charles F. Browne 
Asa Trenchard . • . . . Henry Watterson 

Aunt Kitty Maria J. Macintosh 

Aunt Mary Mary A. Lathbury 

Barnacle A. C. Barnes 

Barry Cornwall .... Bryan Waller Proctor 

/ Benjamin, Austin, and 

»^°="ly 1 Lyman Abbott 

Besieged Resident . . . Henry Labouchere 

Bibliophile Samuel Austin Allibone 

Bill Arp Charles H. Smith 

Blythe White, Jr. . . . Solon Robinson 

Bookworm Thomas F. Donnelly 

Boston Bard Robert S. Coffin 

Boz Charles Dickens 

Brick Pomeroy .... Mark M. Pomeroy 

Burleigh Rev. Matthew Hale Smith 

Burlington Robert Saunders 

Carl Benson Charles A. Bristed 

Chartist Parson .... Rev. Charles Kingsley 
Chinese Philosopher . . Oliver Goldsmith 
Christopher Crowfield . Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe 
Chrystal Croftangry . . Sir Walter Scott 

Claribel Mrs. Caroline Barnard 

Country Parson . . . . A. K. H. Boyd 

Cousin Alice Mrs. Alice B. Haven 

Cousin Kate Catherine D. Bell 

_ _, „ f Charlotte Bronte (Mrs. 

^■^"^^^^ \ Nichols) 

Danbury Newsman . . J. M. Bailey 
Diedrich Knickerbocker Washington Irving 

Dolores Miss Dickson 

Dow, Jr Elbridge G. Page 

Dr. Syntax ...... William Combe 

Dunn Browne .... Rev. Samuel Fiske 



ASSUMED NAME REAI, NAME 

E.D.E.N I^f f""l°- ^' ^' 

^ Southworth 

Edmund Kirke .... James Roberts Gilmore 

Eleanor Kirke Mrs. Nolly Ames 

Elia Charles Lamb 

Eli Perkins Matthew D. lyandon 

Elizabeth Wetherell . . Susan Warner 
Ella Rodman . . . c . Mrs. Eliza Rodman 

Ellis Bell Emily J. Bronte 

English Opium- Eater . Thomas DeQuincy 
Ettrick Shepherd . . . James Hogg 
Eugene Pomeroy . . . Thomas F. Donnelly 

Falconbridge Jonathan F. Kelly 

^ ^ f Wife of James Parton au4 

Fanny Fern. . . . . .^ sister of N. P. Willis 

Fanny Fielding .... Mary J . S. Upsher 
Fanny Forester .... Emily C. Judson 
Fat Contributor . . . . A. M. Griswold 

Father Prout Francis Mahoney 

Florence Percy .... Mrs. Elizabeth Akers Allen 
Frank Forrester .... Henry W. Herbert 

Gail Hamilton f Miss Mary Abigail Dodge 

t. of Hamilton 
Gath, also Laertes . . . George Alfred Townsend 
Geofi- . Crayon .... Washington Irving 

George Eliot Mrs. Marian Lewes Cross 

George Fitz Boodle . . William M. Thackeray 

George Forest Rev. J. G. Wood 

p S d fMme. Amantine Lucille 

^ t Aurore Dudevant 

Grace Greenwood . . Mrs. Sara J. Lippincott 
Grace Wharton . . . . A. T. Thompson 
Hans Breitmann . . . Charles Godfrey Leland 

Hans Yokel A. Oakey Hall 

Harriet Myrtle .... Mrs. Lydia F. F. Miller 

Harry Hazell Justin Jones 

Harry Lorrequer . . . Charles Lever 
Hesba Stretton .... Miss Hannah Smith 

Hibernicus De Witt Clinton 

Historicus Wm. G. Vernon Harcoun 

Hosea Bigelow .... James Russell Lowell 

Howadji George William Curtis 

Howard Mordecai Manuel Noah 

5 



6 



NOMS DE PLUME OF AUTHORS. 



ASSUMED nam:^ reai, name 

Howard Glyndon . . . Laura C. Redden 

Hyperion Josiah Quincy 

lanthe Bmma C. Embury 

Ik Marvel Donald G. Mitchell 

Irenaeus Rev. S. Irenseus Prime, D.D. 

Isabel William Gilmore Simms 

Janus Dr. DoUinger 

Jaques J. Hain Friswell 

Jay Charlton J. C. Goldsmith 

Jedediah Cleishbotham Sir Walter Scott 

Jennie June Mrs. Jennie C. Croly 

John Chalkhill .... Izaak Walton 

John Darby J. C. Garretson 

John Paul C. H. Webb 

John Phoenix, Gentleman George H. Der.^y 

Josh Billings Henry W. Shaw 

Joshua Coffin H. W. Longfellow 

Kate Campbell .... Jane Elizabeth Lincoln 

Kirwan Rev. Nicholas Murray 

K. N. Pepper . . Jamee M Morris 

/vaicus Rev. Lyman Abbott 

Launcelot Wagstaffe, Jr. Charles Mackay 
Lemuel Gulliver . . . Jonathan Swift 
Louise Muhlbach . . . Clara Mundt 
Major Jack Downing . . Seba Smith 
Marion Harland .... Mary V. Terhune 

Mark Twain Samuel L. Clemens 

Max Adler Charles H. Clark 

Minnie Myrtle .... Miss Anna C. Johnson 

Mintwood Miss Mary A. E. Wager 

M. Quad Charles B. Lewis 

Mrs. Partington . . . . B. P. Shillaber 

M. T. Jug Joseph Howard 

Ned Buntline Edward Z. C. Judson 

Nym Crinkle A. C. Wheeler 

Old Bachelor George William Curtis 

Old Cabinet R. Watson Gilder 

Old Humphrey .... George Mogridge 

Old'Un Erancis Alexander Durivdge 

Oliver Optic William Taylor Adams 

Olivia Emily Edson Grigg 

Ollapod Willis G. Clark 

Orpheus C. Kerr . . . Robert H. Newell 

f Ouida Louisa De La Rame 

Owen Meredith .... Lord Lytton 

Parson Brownlow . . . Wm. Gunnaway Brownlow 

Patty Lee Alice Cary 

Paul Creyton J. T. Trowbridge 

Pen Holder ...... Rev. Edward Eggleston 

Pequot . . . . , ... Charles W. March 

Perdita Mrs. Mary Robinson 

Perley Benj. Perley Poore 

Peter Parley S. G. Goodrich 

Peter Pindar Dr. John Wolcot 



ASSUMED NAME 



REAI, NAMS 



Petroleum V. Nasby . . D. R Locke 
Phoenix ....... Sir Henry Martin 

Poor Richard Benjamin Franklin 

Porte Crayon David H. Strother 

Private Miles O'Reilly . Charles G. Halpine 
Robinson Crusoe . . . Daniel Defoe 

Runnymede Lord Beaconsfield 

Rustic Bard Robert Dinsmore 

Sam Slick Thomas C. Halliburton 

Saxe Holm Miss Rush Ellis 

Shirley Dare Mrs. Susan D. Waters 

Sophie May Mrs. Eckerson 

Sophie Sparkle .... Jennie E. Hicks 

Sparrowgrass F. S. Cozzens 

Straws, Jr Kate Field 

Susan Coolidge .... Miss Woolsey 
Teufelsdroeckh .... Thomas Carlyle 

Teutha William J erdan 

The Black Dwarf . . . Thoinas J. Wooler 

The Celt Thomas Davis 

The Druid Henry H. Dixon 

The Governor Henry Morford 

The Traveller Isaac Stary 

Theodore Taylor . . . J. C. Hotten 
Thomas Ingoldsby . . . Rev. R. H. Barham 

Thomas Little Thomas Moore 

Thomas Rowley .... Thomas Chatterton 
Timon Fieldmouse . . William B. Rands 
Timothy Tickler . . . Robert Syme 
Timothy Titcomb ... Dr. J. G. Holland 

Tom Brown Thomas Hughes 

Tom Folio , Joseph E. Babson 

Tom Hawkins Theodore W. A. Buckley 

Trinculo John A. Cockerill 

Tristram Merton . . . Thomas B. Macaulay 

Two Brothers A. and C. Tennyson 

Ubique Parker Gilmore 

Una Mary A. Ford 

Uncle Hardy William Senior 

Uncle John Elisha Noyce 

Uncle Philip Rev. Dr. F. L. Hawk» 

Uncle Toby ..... . Rev. Tobias H. Miller 

Veteran Observer . . . E. D. Mansfield 

Vigilant John Corlett 

Vivian George H. Lewes 

Vivian Joyeux .... W. M. Praed 
Walter Maynard .... William Beaie 

Warhawk William Palmer 

Warrington W. P. Robinson 

Warwick F. O. Otterson 

Waters William H. Russel). 

What's His Name . . ..E. C. Massey 
Wilibald, Alexis .... William Haeriug 
Wizard John Corlett 



THE DELSARTE SYSTEM 

OF 

PHYSICAL CULTURE ^ EXPRESSION 



|ASE and naturalness are among the chief 
requisites for effective reading and re- 
citing. There is a natural way of 
expressing every thought and emotion. Mind 
and body should work together in perfect har- 
mony. Delsarte aims to show how this can be 
done. 

To the uninformed, his name stands hazily for 
some kind of mysticism. The simple fact is, 
that there is no more mysticism connected with 
his teachings and philosophy than there is about 
any philosophy which has to do with mind rather 
than with matter. 

It would be impracticable here to give an 
exhaustive account of Delsarte' s life and philos- 
ophy, even were that possible. The object will 
be simply to state such facts as* will enable the 
young student of the art of expression to under- 
stand why ' ' Delsarteism, " popularly so-called, 
exercises the authority it does. 

In his particular field Delsarte was the greatest 
teacher of modem times, and the only one who 
can be said to have attained to a philosophy of 
expression. He did not leave, nor did he even 
formulate, a pedagogical method, but he did 
formulate and leave rules and principles that are 
fundamental. 

Early Life of Delsarte. 

Francois Delsarte was born November ii, 
^8ii, at Solesmes, France. Early orphaned and 
impoverished, he drifted like many another waif 
to Paris, where in the bitter winter of 182 1 he 
lived in a loft with his younger brother. As 
morning dawned after one awful night, he woke 



to find he clasped a lifeless body in his arms. 
Hunger and exposure had proved fatal to the 
younger child. As Frangois lay weeping on the 
grave of the brother just buried in the potter's 
field, a ragpicker, pursuing his calling, was 
attracted by what appeared to be a bundle of 
rags. He found the object to be a half-starved 
child. Moved with compassion, he took the lad 
to his own miserable abode, and from this squalor 
the future teacher and philosopher began his 
career as a ragpicker. 

For two years he followed his wretched avoca- 
tion, but within his soul burned the passion for 
music, and in his daily wanderings he gratified 
his passion as best he could, drinking in the 
ditties of itinerant vocalists, the playing of 
military bands, snatches of songs, or instrumental 
performances that floated truant to his hungry 
ear. 

The Boy Finds a Friend. 

At twelve, attracted by music in the garden 
of the Tuilleries, he was observed tracing some 
curious marks in the sand by one of the musical 
masters of the time — Bambini. At the request 
of the professor, the boy translated his hiero^ 
glyphics into song. To the question as to where 
he learned them, he replied, *' Nobody taught 
me, sir, I found it out myself." Bambini 
recognized genius. He took the lad to his 
home and began his education in music. During 
two years such was the progress of the boy that 
*' Bambini became the pupil, Delsarte the 
teacher. ' ' 

Just then came a great misfortune — the death 
of his kind protector. Fortunately Bambini had 

7 



8 



THE DELSARTE SYSTEM. 



^ICtti^d. Delsarte's admission to the Conservatory. 
Again, poor and friendless, he had to face the 
world. He was not a favorite at the Conser- 
vatory, because he dared to question the methods 
of the professors, reputed as they were. In after 
life he proved their methodr i:ico^rect and 
injurious. 

In consequence of what they termed his 
audacity, he was given little opportunity for 
public singing, and when occasion was afforded, 
his .style and manner were so essentially unlike 
the methods of the Conservatory, that the public 
were not prepared for approval. We are told 
that only two persons of the vast audience com- 
prehended and appreciated, but the opinion of 
those two overbalanced all the rest — Marie 
Malebran, the '* queen of song," and Adolphe 
Nourrit, ' ' the king of tenors. ' ' 

In due time he left the Conservatory. Failing 
to obtain a position, he was forced to subject 
himself to the humiliation of asking the directors 
for a diploma that he might secure a position in 
a lyric theatre. He was scornfully refused and 
told that ' ' such genius should have gravitated to 
its proper sphere without difficulty or without 
assistance." 

A Brilliant Triumph. 

Then he sought opportunity to sing at the 
Opera House, begging the manager for just one 
chance. When the latter eyed him contempt- 
uously, Delsarte, sensitive r.nd keenly observant, 
said, ' ' Monsieur, though my clothes are poor 
my art is genuine." 

The manager, tired of his persistence and 
anxious to be rid of him, ushered him upon the 
stage between the acts of an opera and roughly 
addressed him: *' Sing, Delsarte! In five 
minutes the curtain will rise. Show the stuff 
you are made of, or if you ever appear here 
again I will have you arrested as a vagrant. ' ' 

And we are told that the ' ' beggar with the 
manners of a prince ' ' walked to the piano amid 
the jeers of the audience, and with tears in his 
eyes and his heart on his lips, sang. But what 
singing ! *' The long pent-up fires of his genius 
burst forth. The people were electrified j the 



house rang with bratdy Again and again he 
was recalled, and every heartstriiig was made to 
vibrate in unison with his soulful utterances. He 
left the theatre the first singer of Paris. ' * 

The Lad Becomes Famous. 

Soon after this, neatly attired and bearing his 
appointment at the Opera Comique, he made a 
brief call at the Conservatory to confirm the 
directors in their judgment that **true genius 
should find its proper sphere. ' ' He gave tangible 
proof of it in his commission, and smiling, point* 
edly observed, * ' Gentlemen, you would not give 
me a recommendation as a chorister, but the 
public have =:-warded me this. ' ' This occurred 
in 1830 

He soon won a European reputation. But 
his voice, injured by incorrect methods of train- 
ing and the physical strain of years of hardship, 
lost its power, and he left the lyric stage at the 
age of twenty-three. In spite of this, every 
inducement was given him to appear in tragedy 
with Rachel at the Theatre Frangais, the belia 
prevailing that his vocal difficulties were but 
temporary. He believed them incurable, and 
turned his attention to acting, because deeply 
interested in expression as an art. He deter- 
mined to search the laws of an art hitherto left 
to the ' ' caprice of mediocrity or the inspiration 
of genius. ' ' He found little to aid him in the 
accepted teachings of the time and was left to 
pursue his investigations according to his own 
independent methods. 

The true genius of the man led him to the 
right fountain — nature, the only fundamental 
source. He studied life and its natural ex- 
pression in all its manifestations, in all conditions, 
and such a course of study took him everywhere 
— '' through hospitals, morgues, asylums, prisons, 
patiently unearthing the sentiments of past 
genius. He studied children at their play, 
weighing humanity everyAvhere and in every 
way. He studied years in medical colleges to 
understand the construction of the human body. 
He studied a lifetime to formulate its expression, 
to convey through the body, beautifully and 



THE DELSARTE SYSTEM. 



9 



rythmically, the sentiments of the soul." He 
was a keen observer and a careful thinker and 
reasoner. After years of observation of the 
manifestations of the mind through the body, he 
sought for the underlying philosophy of these 
manifestations. 

Great Success As a Teacher. 

All this time he was teaching, and among his 
pupils were Rachel, Carvalto, Macready, Pasca, 
Sontag and Barbot. Jenny Lind consulted him. 
Pere Hyacinth and Pere Lacordaire, of pulpit 
fame, were also among his pupils. 

He became so great a teacher that he won a 
recognition that would have brought him wealth 
and a fame more widely understood and recog- 
nized, had not death cut short his career. He 
was offered an annual salary of $20,000 to found 
a conservatory in the United States. The King 
of Hanover, recognizing him as an artist, sent 
him the Guelph cross. A street in his native 
town, Solesmes, was named in his honor. 

His last public appearance was in 1865, at 
the Sorbonne, where the lectures of the Philo- 
technique Society were given. 

His Own Words. 

It is recorded that during the evening he re- 
marked : ' ' Many persons feel confident they 
^re to hear me recite or sing. Nothing of the 
iroTt, gentlemen ; I shall not recite and I shall 
not sing, because I desire less to show you what 
I can do than to tell you what I know. I count 
on the novelty — the absolute novelty — of the 
things I shall teach you. Art is the subject of 
this conversation. Art is divine in its principle, 
divine in its essence, divine in its action, divine 
in its aim. Ah ! gentlemen, there arc no pleas- 
ures more lasting, more noble, and more sacred 
than those of art. Let us glance around us. 
There is not a pleasure which is not followed by 
disappointment or satiety ; not a joy which 
does not entail some trouble ; not an affection 
which does not conceal some bitterness, some 
grief, and often some remorse. Everything is 
disappointing to man. Everything about him 



changes and passes away. Ever}'^thing betrays 
him. Even his senses, so closely allied to his 
being and to which he sacrifices everything like 
faithless servants betray him in their turn. ' ' 

His Marriage. 

Delsarte married, in 1833, Rosina Adrien, the 
daughter of the director of the Grand Opera 
House — a beautiful young girl of only fifteen 
years, whose talent as a pianist had already won 
her a first prize at the Conservatory. Seven 
children were Dorn to them. His son Gustave 
died prematurely. It is said of him that, 
although not approaching his father as a drama- 
tist, he had a most marvellous quality of voice, 
and when you had once heard that voice, which 
was developed by his father's grand method, you 
never forgot its sincerity and melancholy. It 
haunted you and left you longing to hear it 
again. 

Closing Days of His Life. 

Delsarte left Paris with his family in 1870, 
taking refuge until the close of the war in his 
native town of Solesmes. Already ill, he was 
disheartened and crushed by the misfortunes of 
his country. He worked steadily on, however, 
his intellect having lost none of its vigor, though 
his nature had become more or less shadowed. 
After his voluntary exile he returned to Paris ir». 
March, 187 1. 

*' After Delsarte had gathered so abundant a 
harvest of laurels, fate decreed he had lived long 
enough. When he reached his sixtieth year he 
was attacked by hypertrophy of the heart, which 
left his rich organization in ruins. He was no 
longer the artist of graceful, supple expression 
and harmonious movements, no longer the 
thinker with profound and luminous ideas ; but 
in the midst of this physical and intellectual 
ruin, the Christian's sentiment retained its strong, 
sweet energy. 

''After lingering for months in a state that 
was neither life nor death, surrounded by his 
pious wife and weeping, praying children, he 
surrendered his soul to God on the 20th of 
July, 1871." 



10 



THE DELSARTE SYSTEM. 



Delsarte's Philosophy. 

Delsarte was a man of religious feeling and 
knew religious books better than other books. 
He was acquainted with the lore of the priests, 
to which he was indebted for his philosophy. 
I Tradition affirms that he was much Wterested in, 
i and studied Swedenborg. This theory is con- 
firmed by the fact that certain fundamental ideas 
in his philosophy ard the expression of them are 
intrinsically Swedenborgian. 

One of the fundamental principles of Del- 
sarte' s philosophy is the law of correspondence, 
which was discovered by Swedenborg, who held 
that the material world corresponds to the 
spiritual world and is the manifestation of man's 
, mental being. In other words, that the spiritual 
world is symbolized in the physical world. 
Applied to expression, the interpretation of this 
law is: ^' Every expression of the face, every 
posture of the body, corresponds to, or is but an 
outward expression of, an inner cnotion or con- 
dition of the mind." 

Law of Correspondence. 

In the correspondence of the different parts of 
the body, Delsarte' s idea was not that mental 
and moral attributes dwell in these parts, but 
that certain parts best represent, best express, 
i:ertain attributes. For example, the head in its 
poise, etc., represents intellect better /han any 
other part of the body ; the trunk, affection ; 
the limbs, power. Each part can represent a 
certain attribute better than it can represent 
other attributes. 

For proof of the fundamental truth of this 
principle we need appeal only to our intuition, 
that highest of all the powers of judgment, exer- 
cising it upon the familiar illustration of every- 
day life and expression. The mother presses 
her child to her breast in token of affection, not 
to her head or to her arms. The head is bent 
in thought. We encircle a friend with the fore- 
arm in friendly demonstration, not with the 
upper arm ; with that we push aside. In this 
short discussion only the merest index to lines 
of thought can be suggested to the student. 



Laws of Movement. 

Delsarte held that in gesture or movement of 
the body, the parts should move in opposition. 
In proof of the correctness of his theory he 
appealed, as before, to the intuition, judging by 
common observation. When walking normally 
the right arm goes forward with the left foot 
Parallelism offends our idea of fkness and grace 
Opposition of movement marks not only beauty 
but sincerity, according to his ideas, and these 
things prove themselves by their appeal to our 
observation. The workings of this law can be 
demonstrated and proven through all parts of 
the body — there is opposition everywhere. 

Another law of movement which claims the 
student's attention is that ot 

Siiccessiono 

'* If two parts are used at the same time, they 
move in opposition ; but, if moved successively, 
as to time, they move in the same direction—- 
parallel directions." For example, if a culti- 
vated person hears something when listening, 
the eye is turned away from the ear \ when he 
turns toward the direction of the sound to 
examine, the eye is turned first, then the head, 
then the body. The uncultivated person turns 
all at once — has no parts. The uncultivated 
body moves in the mass, is lumbering, stiff, in 
one word, awkward. The cultivated body is 
supple and responsive to mental impulses, in one 
word, graceful. Thus ease and naturalness 
alwa.vs exhibit themselves in persons who have 
all their powers under control, and have reached 
the highest point of mental and physical training. 

Another law relating to movement involves 
this idea : ' ' Every gesture takes its value from 
the point of departure — it is mental, moral or 
vital, according to its point of departure. ' ' 

A- gesture of mentahty takes its point of 
departure from the head. A gesture takes its 
moral value from, the chest as a point of 
departure. The gesture of vitality is from the 
vital part of the body. If the emotion be anger, 
and intellectual anger, because of opposition to 
truth, the finger will come up to the head — '*I 



TI^E DELSARTE SYSTEM. 



n 



declare this to be so and so." If the anger 
involve the sense of right, the point of departure 
will be the region of the heart. If the offence 
be physical, the gesture will be low, in the 
region of the hips. Then there is the law of 

Unity of Movement. 

No part act? alone. The parts assist one 
another, and thus in the matter of gesture con- 
firm one another; otherwise, there would be 
discord and lack of symmetry. 

In this line Delsarte did a great deal of 
pioneer work, and those who have followed his 
methods have had much wo'k to do properly and 
thoroughly to insist upo'^ this law of action, 
obvious as it is. 

Should any agent of the body make a gesture 
which the other parts of the body seem to deny, 
there is evident mental disagreement and physi- 
cal awkwardness. The gesture will seem not 
suitable to the thought, although upon close 
discrimination the leading «gent will be found 
to be responding correctly. 

Many an actor and public reader has been 
termed untrue and justly termed awkward be- 
cause of a lack of unity in all the parts taken 
together. 

The Law of Economy. 

This is the fundamental law of all grace and 
beauty in nature! *' No part of the body is used 
without a definite purpose in view, and no part 
is used more than is absolutely necessary to the 
end sought." 

This law, as do all these fundamental laws of 
nature, appeals to our intuition for proof. The 
awkward, clumsy person moves parts not neces- 
sary to the action, indulges in superflous move- 
ments and finds himself in his own way. 

Following close in logical sequence and insep- 
arable in action, is the law of centers, radically 
involving the preceding law. ' ' The center seems 
to impel all the other parts. That which impels 
the whole body is the center of the chest," 
Note that the upright, easy, graceful walker 
seems impelled by the chest. Should the head 
l«ad, we have a mincing, weak walk. If the 



hips lead, there is an appearance of vulgarity. 
Obedience to this law secures grace. 

These laws, as has been indicated, prove 
themselves, and their collaboration and applica- 
tion in the art of expression show the careful and 
extensive observation and philosophical genersj 
ization of Delsarte' s thought and work. Thes. 
are the laws underlying his philosophy. 

Highest Law of Art. 

''Art rests right upon that law of spon- 
taneity. ' ' Nature is spontaneous in action, by 
means of that secret spring of reflex action. 

One of the truest of his followers, commenting 
upon this very point, has put and answered these 
most pertinent questions; " How did Delsarte 
learn his various principles were true ? How did 
he 'iearn what gestures mean ? By watching 
what people did when excited by their emotions. 
What did these spring from ? From the spon- 
taneity of the mind." Thus all expression 
should come from an inward impulse, and where 
mind and body are in perfect harmony the ex- 
pression will be exactly suited to the thought 
and emotion — nothing forced about it, nothing 
mechanical, but rather the free act of a living 
being in distinction from a mere machine. 

Necessity for Especial Training of Mind 
and Body for Expression. 

It goes without saying, that both the voice 
and the ability to express thought and feeling 
must be developed and cultivated. But it is not 
so quickly and generally recognized that physical 
culture is a necessary concomitant of education 
in expression. Be the mind never so well 
trained, profound and agile in thought, if the 
body, its medium of manifestation, be unculti- 
vated, muscles stiff or inert, and unable to 
respond quickly and intelligently to the mentaJ 
impulses, the result must be awkwardness, weak' 
ness and inaccuracy of gesture. 

Cultivate the muscles, rendering the whole 
physique in every part pliable and quick to 
respond to the emotions, and there will be 
naturally the conformity to the laws which 



t^ 



THE DELSARTE SYSTEM. 



Delssiie primarily deduced from nature. That 
a student may effectively render a selection, it is 
not necessary that he should carefully and 
mechanically formulate what emotions are appro- 
priate to the thoughts expressed in it, and then 
select and learn the gestures appropriate to such 
States of mind. Let him work upon the selection, 
calling upon the imagination until he can live 
\hose scenes and have those states of mind 
described, and the body will respond. 

The formula is simple! *^ Objects appeal tc 
the mind, the mind acts, the body expresses." 

Does this need proof? " Give a dog some- 
thing he wants ; some secret spring will move 
his eyes and wriggle his tail just right. ' ' It will 
not be necessary to look up the proper rules first 
and then instruct him to place and move his 
parts to correspond. Children act naturally, 
and their actions are spontaneous. They have 
no rules for expression, yet in the main no 
expression is more effective They are natural 
in all things. 

Use of Gestssres. 

Gesture is the delineation in the air, by the 
physical agents of the body, of mental concep- 
tions, " The basis of oratory is to get the body 
to respond to the thought. ' ' In every act of the 
human being we have to recognize the close and 
subtle relation of body and soul. The mind is 
the divine in man, the only source of instruction 
to the body. ' ' Gesture is in the soul. ' * 

Gesture was, undoubtedly, man's first and 
only language. Gesture includes more than the 
movements of the hands and arms, or the body 
as a whole. It necessarily includes all the 
ph^'sical agents, all parts of the body, the most 
subtle of all being the eye and mouth. In 
reference to the mouth, this does not mean its 
action in speech. There is a subtle movement 
of the mouth accompanying both speech and 
silence that is most significant. 

Culture of the Body^ 

Now, how can we cultivate the responsive 
power of the body to enable the body to be a 
more ready, more transparent medium for the 



mind? Obviously, the first essential condition 
is a healthy body, and physical culture aids in 
effecting this as powerfully as in rendering the 
muscles elastic. Exercising any groups of mus- 
cles impels, physically, to the instinctive adjust^ 
ment of all the muscles to effect unity with the 
group exercised. 

To sum up in a few words, the trend of these 
statements concerning gesture is only to say to 
the sincere student, let nature work in her own 
divine way. Cultivate the mind to comprehend, 
the body to respond^ and your gestures will take 
care of themselves, as have always the gestures 
of every God-inspired orator and reader. 

Yet, to have some practical instruction, based 
on the principles already stated, will aid the 
young strident. 

Gestures of the Hand. 

jJeisarte taught his criteria of gesture of the 
hand with a cube. Holding the hand out 
straight, palm up. so that the cube can rest on 
it, signifies upholding, sustaining. Delsarte 
adds, ''giving," ''receiving;" but it will be 
observed the action of the hand is the same for 
both. The hand passed to the side gives the 
position of separation, which Delsarte calls 
"definition." If the hand be raised to attract 
attention, the forefinger will be inclined to act, 
thus separating the person desired from others. 
The hand passed to the top of the cube covers 
it, protects ; thus held flat, signifies protection ; 
curved, implies something more tender---a 
caress. 

The same gesture is a true one when describing 
certain actions, as of animals running — they 
cover so much ground. The term "cover" is 
considered by one of our own great teachers a 
more generic term than "protect," The hand 
passed to the opposite side gives the attitude of 
rejection, a familiar gesture. The hand passed 
to the outer end, palm toward the cube, signifies 
limitation ; passed to the end next the person, 
back of hand to cube, fingers pointing up, sig- 
nifies revelation. The palm may mean repulsion 
or attraction, depending on the sentiment. 



THE DELSARTE SYSTEM. 



13 



A person of great responsiveness i:^ apt to use 
both hands and also both arms. The whole 
personality is interested. In merely mental 
activity — reasoning- — one hand, one finger will 
be employed. The gestures of the arm enforce 
those of the hand. 

The *' perpendicular" movements of the arm 
are those of appellation, salutation, affirmation. 
The '* lateral" movements are those of declara- 
tion, negation, rejection. The *' forward" 
movements are those of repulsion, attraction, 
supplication. 

The altitude of gestures depends somewhat on 
the position of the object of thought. The hand 
will move in curves — nature's own lines. All 
gestures are affected by the altitude which indi- 
cates the moral plane. Greater intellectuality 
gives higher gt^tures. The more vividly the 
imagination works, rendering the thought bril- 
liant, the higher the gestures. 

It must be remembered that we have spoken 
of the gestures of only one agent, the hand- 
The nobler and subtler gestures are of the face 
and chest. The eye has a language of its own ; 
it is a wonderful agent of expression. Look 
your thought ; speak it with your eyes. All the 
features of your face were made to talk. Let 
your face speak all emotions — surprise, joy, fear, 
hope, expectancy, anguish, in short, every mood 
of the inner being. Feel the emotions ; make 
them your ^wn, and then express them 
naturally. 

Exercises for the Body. 

1. With body erecl and hands at sides, move 
the head to right and left, and forward and 
backward ; cultivates the muscles of the neck. 

2. With hands on the hips, move the upper 
part of the body to right and left, and forward 
and backward; this cultivates the muscles of the 
chest and back. 

3. Close the hands, extend the arms in front, 
and bring the hands together behind the back ; 
repeat at least twenty times. 

4. Stand erect, with arms straight at the sides; 
Jiftove the arms outward from the sides, and 



elevate them, bringing the hands above the head; 
repeat at least twenty times. 

5. Hold the right arm out horizontally, palm 
of hand upward j double the left arm, the tips 
of the ' fingers resting on the shoulder ; then 
stretch out the left arm, at the same time doub- 
ling the right arm and placing the tips of the 
fingers on the right shoulder ; repeat, and then 
make the movements with both arms simul- 
taneously. 

6. Holding the arms straight, swing them with 
a rotary motion, thrusting them forward as they 
are elevated and backward as they are lowered, 
bringing them to the sides, and then repeat. 

7. Lift the hands from the sides to the 
shoulders, then raise the arms at full length 
above the head, and also extend them hori- 
zontally, dropping them at the sides ; repeat. 

The Lower Limbs. 

^.. Standing erect, with the hands on the hips, 
lower the body, bending the knees, the weight 
resting on the toes, and rise; repeat at least 
fifteen times, but not too fast. 

9. Placing the hands on the hips, right leg 
forward and left leg slightly bent ; thrust the 
body forward, thus straightening the left leg and 
bending the right; then placing the left leg 
forward, repeat movements. 

10. With the body bent forward, closed hands 
between the knees, raise the body and elevate 
the hands above the head, taking care to keep 
the arms straight ; repeat. 

11. Place the hands on the front side of the 
hips, bend the body forward, and then rise to an 
erect position, at the same time throwing th^ 
head backward : repeat. 

12. Steady yourself with one hand on a chair 
place the other hand on the hip and swing the 
leg forward across the other; then backward; 
repeat, and then swing the other leg in likr 
manner. 

13. Steady yourself with one hand on a chair, 
place the other hand on the hip, and swing the 
leg forward and backward ; repeat, and then 
swing the other leg in like maimer. 



u 



THE DELSARTE SYSTEM. 



140 Stretch the boJy forward, placing the 
hands on the bottom of a chair ; then straighten 
the arms and raise the body. This must not be 
repeated so many times as to render the muscles 
sore and stiff. 

15. Extend the arms forward at full length, 
~>alms downward ; then move the hands back- 
^^ard and forward as far as possible ; this renders 
the fingers and muscles of the wrist pliant. 

16. Stand erect with hands on the hips and 
light weight on the head; then rise on the toes 
and fall. 

17. Extend the arms slightly from the sides, 
close the hands and then rotate them 3 this cul- 
tivates the muscles of the arms. 

18. With body erect and hands on the hips, 
fill the lungs to their utmost capacity; then 
slowly emit the breath. Fill the lungs again, 
and emit more rapidly; again, and emit with a 
quick, explosive force. 

Cultivation and Use of the Voice. 

The parts primarily and directly concerned in 
the production of the human voice in speech 
and song are the articulating organs and cham- 
ber: of resonants, the vocal cords, the lungs, 
and. the muscles of respiration. We cannot, 
however, separate the voice from any of the 
vital parts of the body. It is connected with 
the whole being, not only physically, but ment- 
ally and morally. 

Muscles and organs are all governed by nerves ; 
the nerves are controlled by the brain. Thus, 
physiologically, the voice is vitally connected 
vith the unity of man's being. In no sense 
md in no way whatever is it a thing by itself to 
')e cultivated alone. 

The prime physical aid to the culti\aation of 

the voice is a healthy body. All the vocal 

irgans should respond quickly and easily to 

mind and will, to the thought and emotion, and 

the mental effort employed in expressing them. 

There should be training of the mind and 

fB-Y to conceive beautiful tones, and also culti- 

ation of the facial muscles to permit firm and 

lefinite moulding. People mumble their speech. 



not only because they have incorrect ideas of 
sound, but also because the muscles do not take 
definite action — they are flaccid and are not 
keyed up and trained to the point of properly 
doing their work. 

Suggestions to Readers. 

The reader must always remember that his 
work is distinctly and wholly for others. Keep 
ever in mind that you read your selection to 
please, to instruct, to inspire your fellow-beings, 
and not to exhibit yourself and your powers; 
then there will be no danger of self-conscious- 
ness. 

Then be thoroughly and entirely alive. No 
perfection of manner can atone for lack of life. 
Again, although there is no human device by 
which to measure it, time is necessary for the 
transmission of thought. It takes time for your 
voice to reach the physical ear of the listener, 
then time for the thought to reach his conscious- 
ness and produce its effect. Give time for the 
thought to implant itself. In addition to this 
there is no more suggestive emphasis than a 
pause. 

Take care not to do all your thinking before- 
hand ; cultivate the power to think on your feet, 
at the time you are speaking, otherwise your 
reading will indeed be a recitation — a mere 
mechanical recapitulation of past thinking — and 
it will lack the fire of the soul's present action, 
which alone touches and inflames the hearts of 
others. A selection just committed, on the 
other hand, without having had time to be well- 
grounded and analyzed, will be given in a mass 
- -all alike. 

Talk with your audience, not at them or over 
their heads. Cultivate a conversational style. 
It has been said of one of the greatest of our 
orators — Wendell Phillips — that his oratory was 
that of ''a gentleman talking." 

Remember the greatest thing you bring to an 
audience is your own personality. Would you 
succeed in your art, cultivate all that goes to 
make up the great artist — ^body, heart and 
soul. 



RECITATIONS with LESvSON TALKS 




** FLAG THE TRAIN." 

IThe last words of Kngineer Edward Kennar, who died in a 
railroad accident near St. Johnsville, N. Y.] 

O, flag the train, boys, flag the train! 

Nor waste the time on me ; 
But leave me by my shattered cab ; 
'Tis better thus to be ! 
It was an awful leap, boys, 

But the worst of it is o'er; 
I hear the Great Conductor's call 
Sound from the farther shore, 

2. I hear sweet notes of angels, boys. 

That seem to say : '^Well done ! '* 
I see a golden city there. 

Bathed in a deathless sun ; 
There is no night, nor sorrow, boys, 

No wounds nor bruises there ; 
The way is clear — the engineer 

Rests from his life's long care. 

3. Ah! 'twas a fearful plunge, my lads; 

I saw, as in a dream, 
Those dear, dear faces, looming up 

In yonder snow)' stream ; 
Down in the Mohawk's peaceful depths 

Their image rose and smiled, 
E'en as we took the fatal leap ; 

Oh God^ — my wife 1 my child ! 

4. Well, never mind ! I ne'er shall see 

That wife and child again ; 
But hasten, hasten, leave me, boys ! 

For God's sake, flag the train ! 
Farewell, bright Mohawk ! and farewell 

My cab, my comrades all ; 
I'm done for, boys, but hasten on. 

And sound the warning call ! 



5. Oh, what a strange, strange tremor this 
That steals unceasing on I 
Will those dear ones I've cherished so 

Be cared for when I'm gone! 
Farewell, ye best beloved, farewell I 

I've died not all in vain- 
Thank God ! The other lives are saved ; 
Thank God! They've flagged the train ! 
William B. Chisholm. 

LESSON TALK. 

In reciting this piece your manner should be ani- 
mated ; no dragging, no drawling. You are to put 
yourself in the place of the engineer, who nobly 
stood to his post and lost his life. At the »ame time 
remember it is a dying man who is speaking and 
you must not be boisterous. Subdued, animated, 
intense expression is required. 

1. The first part of this verse has tne force of com- 
mand, with rapid utterance. Extend the right arm, 
with the palm of the hand outward. Lower the 
voice on the third line, relax the muscles and express 
submission by tone and look. Assume a listening 
attitude in the last two lines. 

2. Continue the expression of the last two lines of 
the preceding verse through this verse. The main 
feeling is that of triumph. Lift the eyes and hands 
on the lines beginning, "I see a golden city," etc. 
Drop the eyes and hands on the last two lines and 
assume an easy, natural attitude. 

3. Begin this verse in a tone only a little above a 
whisper, with face and manner expressing horror. 
Point to "those dear, dear faces looming up." This 
is all vivid description. You see the faces in imagi- 
nation, and what you see and realize should be made 
real to your audience. This is the only successful 
reading. On the last line of the verse raise the voice 
to high pitch, clasp the hands convulsively and let 
the tone and manner express anguish. The delivery 
should be intense, rapid, and here, as always, show- 
ing an absence of all self-consciousness. 

4. The first two lines require an easy, subdued 
manner, expressive of resignation. Suddenly the 
Cianner changes and the utterance grows quick and 

15 




16 



RECITATIONS WITH LESSON TALKS. 



intense The manner suddenly changes again on 
the fifth line and the tone becomes plaintive. 
Anxiety for the safety of the train comes out 
strongly in the last two lines. 

5. The tremor of death now comes creeping on, 
and the first two lines may appropriately be spoken 
in a whisper. With a wave of the hand deliver the 
''farewell.'* Then in a tone of exultation exclaim, 
"I've died," etc. 

This is an excellent selection for rapid changes of 
tone and expression, and for dramatic effect. The 
success of the rendering will depend upon your 
power to picture the scene vividly. 

THE MISSING SHIP. 

1. It was long before the cable stretched 
across the ocean, when the steamers did not 
make such rapid runs from continent to conti- 
nent, that the ship Atlantic was missing. She 
had been due in New York for some days, and 
the people began to despair. * * The Atlantic 
has not been heard from yet!'* "What news 
from the Atlantic on Exchange?" 

2. "None." Telegraph dispatches come in 
from all quarters. "Any news from the Atlan- 
tic ? ' ' And the word thrilled along the wires to 
the hearts of those who had no friends on board. 
"No." 

Day after day passed, and people began to be 
excited when the booming of the guns told that 
a ship was coming up the Narrows. People 
went out upon the Battery and Castle Garden 
with their spy- glasses ; but it was a British ship, 
the Union Jack was flying ; they watched her 
come to her moorings anr" their hearts sank 
within them. 

3. "Any news from the Atlantic ?^^ "Has 
not the Atlantic arrived?" "No!" "She 
sailed fifteen days before we did, and we have 
heard nothing from her, ' ' and the people said, 
"there is no use hoping against hope, she has 
gone. She has made her last port. " 

4. At length one bright and beautiful morn- 
ing the guns boomed across the bay, and a ship 
was seen coming into port. Down went the 
people to the Battery and Castle Garden. It 
was a British ship again, and their hearts seemed 
to die within them. But up she came, making 



a ridge of white foam before her, and you could 
hear a heavy sigh from that crowd, as if it were 
the last hope dying out. 

5. Then they wiped away the dimness of grief 
and watched the vessel. Round she came most 
gallantly, and as she passed the immense crowds 
on the wharves and at Castle Garden, tho crew 
hoisted flags from trucks to mainchains. An 
officer leaped upon the paddle-box, put his 
trumpet to his lips, and cried out, ' ' The 
Atlantic is safe. She has put into port foi 
repairs 1 ' ' 

6. Then such a shout ! Oh, now they shouted ! 
Shout ! shout ! shout ! " The Atlantic is safe ! ' ' 

Bands of music paraded the streets, telegraph 
wires worked all night long, "The Atlantic \^ 
safe, ' ' bringing joy to milhons of hearts, and yet 
not one in a hundred thousand of those who 
rejoiced had a friend or relative on board that 
steamer. It was sympathy with the sorrows of 
others, with whom they had no tie in common 
save that which God created when he made of 
one blood all the nations of the earth, and per- 
mitted us, as brethren, to call him the common 
Father of us all. 

John B. Gough. 

LESSON TAIvK. 

In the first verse you have an easy description until 
you come to the last lines. Raise the voice and 
express anxiety by rapid, intense utterance. In the 
second verse the same intense expression should 
appear. The first part of the second paragraph con- 
tains a joyous announcement. Point to the ship 
coming up the Narrows. Drop the hand to the side 
and express disappointment as you say, "it was a 
British ship. ' * 

IvCt your animated manner show the excitement 
of the people, who, in verse 3, are inquiring about 
the "Atlantic" End the verse in deep, subdued 
tones. 

In verse 4 the manner suddenly changes, and ring- 
ing tones of joy announce the arrival of a ship. In 
verse 5 there is a vivid description ; picture the 
scene to your own mind, and with eyes fixed, and 
outstretched hand, depict it. Imitate by a lond, ring- 
ing call, the officer on the paddle-box. 

The last verse requires an elevated pitch. Shout 
on the word "shout." With your most rapid utter- 
ance depict the despatches flying in all directiona. 
announcing that the ' ' Atlantic ' ' is safe. 




y. 




'^«^yi^ 




REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES DICKENS 

1. THE BIRTHPLACE OF CHARLES DICKENS, COMMERCIAL ROAD, PORTSEA. 2. THE "daRK 
COURT" IN FLEET STREET, (JOHNSON'S COURT) WHERE DICKENS POSTED HIS FIRST SKETCH. 
3. THE HOUSE IN FURNIVAL'S INN WHERE "PICKWICK" WAS WRITTEN. 4. CHARLES 

DICKENS EDITING "HOUSEHOLD WORDS." 5. THE CHURCH IN WHICH DICKENS WAS MAR- 
RIED, ST. LUKE'S, CHELSEA. 6. GAD'S HILL PLACE, ROCHESTER, THE NOVELISTS' LAST 
HOME. 7. THE MOAT, ROCHESTER CASTLE, WHERE DICKENS DESIRED TO BE BURIED. 




FRANCIS WILSON 

"It was all about a— ha! ha! and a--ho! ho! ho!--well reallv 
It is— he! he! he!— I never could begin to tell you." 
(A Fine Study of Mirth) 




Fig. I.— declaring. 
This rock shall fly as soon as I. 




Fig. 2.— announcing. 
We hold these tru.hs to be self-evident. 




Fig. 3— revealing. 
Wait a moment ; you shall know the whole story. 




Fig. 4.— denying— rejecting. 
A proposition so infamous should instantly be voted down. 




Fig. 5.— defending. 
Brave was Eudora to defend her child. 




Fig. 6.— PROTECTING— soothing. 
It is not the part of strength to crush, but to sheher and defend 




Fig. 7.— presenting OR RECEIVING. 
Give thy heart's best treasures ; wait not a return. 




Fig. 8.— signalling. 
This way, this way ! and step lively, too. 




Fig. 9-— designating. 
Look ! Do you think my eyes deceive me ? 




Fig. io.-SILENCE. 
Hush, hark ! That sound breaks in once more. 




Fig. II.— secrecy. 
Tell it not in Gath, publi-h it not in the streets ^f Askelon. 




Fig. 12.— meditation. 
In thought profound Adalbert stood 




Fig. 13.— indecision. 
The road forks — now, which shall it be? 




Fig. 14.— defiance. 
Again to the battle, Achaians! 
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance 




Fig. 15.— repulsion. 
Avaunt ! Richard's himself again. 




Fig. i6.— exaltation. 
And leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. 




Fig. 17.— wonderment. 
Sure enough, Santa Claus had come down the chimney. 




Fig. i8.— gladness. 
A mother's pride, a father's joy. 




Fig. 19.— anguish. 
Oh ! how should I pour out my bleeding heart in anguish, new as deepi 




Fig. 20.— remorse. 
Oh, wretched state ! Oh, bosom black as death ! 




Fig. 21.— awe— appeal. 
The spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim. 




Fig. 22.— horror. 
Thin, airy shoals of visionary ghosts ! 




Fig. 23.— dispersion. 
Scatter and disperse the giddy Goths I 




Fig. 24.— discerning. 
'Land, ho !" cried the man at the masthead. 




Fig. 25.— tender REJECTION. 
Pain barbs the word ; yet I must say. Depart ! 




Fig. 26.— self-reproach. 
Alas ! the soul-bird sings no longer. 




Fig. 27.— grief. 
Stricken, I fell beneath that weight of woe. 




Fig. 28.— malediction. 
Curse all his intrigues ! they've undone his country. 




Fig. 29.— accusation. 
Thou art the man. 




Her manners had not that repose v/hich stamps the cast of 
Vere de Vere 




Fig. 3I-— invocation. 
>'«gel of mercy ! grant a pitying sigh. 




Fig. 32.— correct POSITIONS OF THE HANDS. 
, T. Simple affirmation. 2. Emphatic declaration. 3. Apathy or 
prostration. 4. Energetic appeal. 5. Negation or denial. 6. Violent 
repulsion. 7. Indexing or cautioning. 8. Determination or anger. 
9. Supplication. 10. Gentle entreaty. 11. Carelessness. 12. Argu- 
mentation. 13. Earnest entreaty. 14. Resignation. 



Descriptive Recitations. 



THE RED JACKET. 



JS a cold, bleak night ! with angry roar 
The north winds beat and clamor at the 
door; 

The drifted snow lies heaped along the street, 
Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet ; 
The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend, 
But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend; 
Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps chrown, 
Dance their weird revels fitfully alone. 

In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease, 
Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas ; 
In happy homes, where warmth and comfort m^et, 
The weary traveler with their smiles to greet ; 
In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm 
Round starving embers, chrHing limbs to warm. 
Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light— - 
** Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night ! ' ' 

But hark ! above the beating of the storm 

Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm ! 

Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light, 

And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright ; 

From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call, 

Tht ready friend no danger can appall ; 

Fk ice for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave. 

He hurries forth to battle and to save. 

From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out, 
Devouring all they coil themselves about. 
The flaming furies, mounting high and higher. 
Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire. 
^Jtrong arms are battling with the stubborn foe 
In vain attempts his power to overthrow ; 
With mocking glee he revels with his prey. 
Defying human skill to check his way. 

2 



And see ! far up above the flame's, iiot breath. 
Something that's human waits a horrid death; 
A little child, with waving golden hair, 
Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare, 
Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed. 
While sobs of terror shake her tender breast. 
And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild, 
A mother screams, *'0 God! my child my 
child!'' 



Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng 
A hardy fireman swiftly moves along ; 
Mounts sure and fast along the slender way, 
Fearing no danger, dreading but delay. 
The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path. 
Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath : 
But up, still up he goes ! the goal is won ! 
His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone 1 

Gone to his death. The wily flames surround 
And burn and beat his ladder to the ground, 
In flaming columns move with quickened beat 
To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat. 
Courageous neart, thy mission was so pure, 
Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore ; 
Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live. 
Crowned with all honors nobleness can give. 

Nay, not so fast ; subdue these gloomy fears ; 
Behold 1 he quickly on the roof appears. 
Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm 
Flung round her shrinking form to guard from 

harm. 
Up with your ladders ! Quick ! ' tis but a chance ! 
Behold . how fast the roaring flames advance ] 

17 



18 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



Quick ! quick ! brave spirits, to his rescue fly ; 
Up ! up ! by heavens ! this hero must not die { 

Silence ! he comes along the burning road, 
Bearing, with tender care, his living load ; 
Aha ! he totters ! Heaven in mercy save 
I The good, true heart that can so nobly brave. 



He's up again I and now heS <ioming fast! 
One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed! 
And now he's safe ! Bold flames, ye fought in 

vain! 
A happy mother clasps her child again ! 

George M. Baker. 



SISTER'5 CAKE, 



f*D NOT complain of Sister Jane, for she was 
good and kind. 
Combining with rare comeliness distinctive 
gifts of mind ; 
Nay, I'll admit it were most fit that worn by 

social cares, 
She'd crave a change from parlor life to that 

below the stairs. 
And that, eschewing needlework and music she 

should take 
Herself to the substantial art of manufacturing 
cake. 

At breakfast, then, it would befall that sister Jane 

would say ; 
"Mother, if you have got the things, I'll make 

some cake to-day ! ' ' 
Poor mother' d cast a timid glance at father, like 

as not — 
For father hinted sister's cooking cost a frightful 

lot— 
But neither he or she presumed to signify dissent, 
Accepting it for gospel truth that what she 

wanted went ! 

No matter what the rest of *em might chance to 

have in hand, 
The whole machinery of the house came to a 

sudden stand ; 
f The pots were hustled off the stove, the fire built 

up anew, 
With every damper set just so to heat the oven 

through ; 
The kitchen-table was relieved of everything, to 

make 
The ample space which Jane required when she 

compounded cake. 



And, oh ! the bustling hert and there, the flying 

to and fro; 
The clicks of forks that whipped the egg^ to 

lather white as snow — 
And what a wealth of sugar melted swiftly out oi 

sight— 
And butter? Mother said such waste would 

ruin father, quite ! 
But Sister Jane preserved a mien no pleading 

could confound. 
As she utilized the raisins and citron by the pound. 

Oh, hours of chaos, tumult, heat, vexatious dit 

and whirl i 
Of deep humiliation for the sullen hired girl ; 
Of grief for mother, hating to see things wasted so. 
And of fortune for the little boy who pined to 

taste that dough ! 
It looked so sweet and yellow — -sure, to taste it 

were no sin — 
But, oh ! how sister scolded if he stuck his 

fingers in ! 

The chances were as ten to one, before the job 

was through. 
That sister' d think of something else she'd a- 

great deal rather do ! 
So, then, she'd softly steal away, as Arabs in the 

night. 
Leaving the girl and ma to finish up as best they 

might ; 
These tactics (artful Sister Jane) enabled her to 

take 
Or shift the credit or the blame on that toU" 

treacherous cake ! 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS, 



19 



And yet, unhappy is the man who has no sister 

Jane — 
For he who has no sister seems to me to live in 

vain. 
Tve never had a sister — maybe that is why to-day 
I'm wizened and dyspeptic, instead of blithe 

and gay; 
A. boy who's only forty should be full of romp 

and mirth, 
But I (because I'm sisterless) am the oldest man 

on earth ! 

Had I a little sister — oh, how happy I should be ! 
I'd never let her cast her eyes on any chap but me ; 
I'd love her and I'd cherish her for better and for 

worse — 
Td buy her gowns and bonnets, and sing her 

praise in verse ; 



And — yes, what's more and vastly more — I tell 

you what I'd do; 
I'd let her make her wondrous cake? and I would 

eat it, too ! 

I have a high opinion of the sisters, as you see-* 
Another fellow's sister is so very dear to me ! 
I love to work anear her when she's making ovei 

frocks, 
When she patches little trousers or dams prosaic 

socks ; 
But I draw the line at one thing — -yes I don my 

hat and take 
A three-hours' walk when she is moved to try 

her hand at cake I 

Eugene Fieli>. 



BRACE UPo 



"® 



RACE up ! " We like ihat slang phrase. 
We like it because there is lots of soul 
in it. You never knew a mean, stingy, 
snivel-souled man to walk up to an afflicted 
neighbor, slap him on the shoulder and tell him 
to brace up. It is a big hearted, open-handed, 
whole souled fellow that comes along when you 
are cast down and squares off in front of you and 
tells you : ' ' That won' t do, old fellow, brace up ! " 
It is be that tells you a good story and makes 
you laugn in spite of yourself. He lifts the cur- 
tain that carkens your soul and lets in the cheer- 
ing sunlight. It is he that reminds you there 
never was a brilliant sunset without clouds. He 
may ncl tell you so in just such words, but he 
will make you *' brace up" and see the silver 
lining for yoursol:. 

Have you been tngaged in risky speculation, 
and just when you expected to gather in your 
golden gains, stocks fell and you found yourself 

bankrupt? Don't get discouraged, take to 
drink to drown your troubles, or commit any 
Dther rash act prompted by force of adverse cir- 
cumstances ; brace up ! You have gained wisdom 
trom v-jxpeiience, strength from the struggle, 
jrace u^i a.nd go ahead 1 



There is no tome like this to restore the dop 
mant energies, no course of gymnastics equal to 
it for strengthening nerve and muscle; don't 
drug the system with patent nostrums, don't 
fool away time with dumb-bells, brace up! 
brace up! and health, strength and enthusiasm 
will urge you on to still greater achievements 
and to ultimate success. 

"Look up — not down! The mists that chill and 
blind thee 
Strive with pale wings to take a sunward flight ; 
Upward the green boughs reach ; the face of 
nature. 
Watchful and glad, is lifted to the light. 
The strength that saves comes never from th« 

ground 
But from the mountain-tops that shine around. 

Look forward, and not back ! Each lost endeavor 
May be a step upon thy chosen path; 

All that the past withheld, in larger m^^asure. 
Somewhere, in willing trust, the future hatb- 

Near and more near the ideal stoops to me^ 

The steadfast coming of unfaltering feet.** 
Brace up I Brace up I 



20 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
THE FACE ON THE FLOOR. 



^WAS a balmy summet evening, and a 

goodly crowd was there 
That well nigh filled Joe's barroom on the 
corner of the square, 
And as songs and witty stories came through the 

open door ; 
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the 
floor. 

*' Where did it come from?** some one said; 

*'The wind has blown it in.'* 
"What does it want?" another cried, **Some 

whiskey, beer, or gin ? ' * 
*' Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal 

to the work, 
I wouldn't touch him with a ibrk, he's as filthy 

as a Turk." 

This badinage the poor wretch took, with stoical 

good grace, 
In fact, he smiled as if he thought he'd struck 

the proper place ; 
"Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts 

among so good a crowd ; 
To be in such good <:ompany "'^uld make a 

deacon proud. 

"'Give me a drink! That's what I want, I'm 

out of funds, you know. 
When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand 

was never slow ; 
What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket 

never held a sou ; 
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one 

of you. 

** There, thanks, that braced me nicely, God 

bless you, one and all, 
Next time I pass this good saloon I'll make 

another call ; 
Give you a song? No, I can't do that, my singing 

days are past, 
My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out and 

my lungs are going fast. 



"Say, give me another whiskey an^ 1*11 tell you 

what I'll do — 
I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, 

too; 
That I was ever a decent man, not one of yoi: 

would think. 
But I was, some four or five years back, say, 

give us another drink. 

^ * Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into 
my frame — > 

Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably 
tame ; 

Five fingers — there, that's the scheme — and cork- 
ing whiskey, too. 

Well, boys, here's luck, and landlord, my best 
regards to you. 

"You've treated me pretty kindly and I'd like 

vO tell you how 
I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now; 
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, 

frame and health. 
And, but for a blunder, ought to have made 

considerable wealth. 

" I was a painter — not one that daubed on brick| 

and wood, 
But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty 

good; 
I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding 

fair to rise ; 
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my 

eyes. 

"I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, 'tis 

called the Chase of Fame ; 
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added 

to my name ; 
And then, I met a woman — no^w comes the funny 

part — 
With eyes that petrified my brain, and suDk into 

my heart. 



il 




PHOTO. Bf MORRISON, CHICAGO 

THK MASK REMOVED 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



21 



"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the 

vagabond you see 
Could ever love a woman and expect her love 

for me ; 
But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smile 

was freely given ; 
<^nd when her loving lips touched mine, it 

carried my to heaven. 

^*Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your 

soul you'd give, 
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to 

live, 
With eyes that would beat the Kohinoor and a 

wealth of chestnut hair ? 
If so, '^was she, for there never was another half 

so fair. 

*'I was working on a portrait one afternoon in 

May, 
Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine who lived 

across the way. 
And Madeline admired it, and much to my 

surprise. 
Said that she'd like to know the man that had 

such dreamy eyes. 

*'It didn't take long to know him, and before 

the month had flown. 
My friend had stole my darling, and I was left 

alone ; 



And ere a year of misery had passed above my 

head. 
The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and 

was dead. 

*' That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I 
never saw you smile, 

I thought you'd be amused and laughing all the 
while ; 

Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a tear- 
drop in your eye. 

Come, laugh like me, 'tis only babes and women 
that should cry. 

*'Say, boys, if you'll give me another whiskey, 

I'll be glad. 
And I'll draw right here, the picture of the face 

that drove me mad ; 
Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark 

the base-ball score — 
And you shall see the lovely Madeline upon the 

barroom floor. " 

Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the 

vagabond began 
To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of 

any man. 
Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely 

head. 
With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across 

the picture — dead. 

H. Antoine D'Arcy. 



BRAVE KATE 5HELLEY. 

" How far that little candle throws its beams, 
So shines a good deed in a naughty world." 



HROUGH the whirl of wind and water, 

Parted by the rushing steel. 
Flashed the white glare of the headlight. 
Flew the swift revolving wheel, 
As the midnight train swept onward. 
Bearing on its iron wings. 
Through the gloom of night and tempest 
Freightage of most precious things. 

Little children by their mothers 
Nestle in unbroken rest. 



Stalwart men are dreaming softly 
Of their journey's finished quest. 

While the men who watch and guard them, 
Sleepless stand at post and brake ; 

Close the throttle ! draw the lever ! 
Safe for wife and sweetheart's sake. 

Sleep and dream, unheeding danger; 

In the valley yonder lies 
Death's debris in weird confusion, 

Altar fit for sacrifice ! 



22 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



Dark anA grim the shadows settle 
Where the hidden perils wait; 

Swift the train, with dear lives laden. 
Rushes to its deadly fate. 

Still they sleep and dream unheeding. 

Oh, Thou watchful One above, 
Save Thy people in this hour ! 

Save the ransomed of Thy love ! 
Send an angel from Thy heaven 

Who shall calm the troubled air, 
And reveal the powers of evil 

Hidden in the darkness there. 

Saved ! ere yet they know their peril. 
Comes a warning to alarm ; 

Saved ! the precious train is resting 
On the brink of deadly harm, 

God has sent his angel to them,, 
Brave Kate Shelley, hero -child I 



Struggling on, alone, unaided. 

Through that night of tempest wild. 

Brave Kate Shelley ! tender maiden, 

Baby hands, with splinters torn. 
Saved the lives of sleeping travellers 

Swiftly to death's journey borne. 
Mothers wept and clasped their darlings. 

Breathing words of grateful prayer ; 
Men, with faces blanched and tearful. 

Thanked God for Kate Shelley there. 

Greater love than this hath no man. 

When the heavens shall unfold. 
And the judgment books are opened. 

There, in characters of gold. 
Brave Kate Shelley's name shall center, 

'Mid the pure, the brave, the good, 
That of one who crowned with glory 

Her heroic womanhood. 

Mrs. M. L. Rayne. 



NATHAN HALE. 




PEED, speed thee forth," said Washing- 
ton, 
On Harlem's battle plain, 
'•For yonder lies the British foe. 
Bring back his plans of battle, Go!" 
The volunteer of twenty-one. 

Whose heart was never known to quail, 
Bowed — ^heard his orders, — ^bowed again, 
'Twas Captain Nathan Hale. 

One night when shone the harvest moon. 
His boat shot thro' the spray. 

Blithely across the starlit sound 

To where upon Manhattan's ground 
The British were encamped, and soon 

The soldier-boy was on their trail — 
Captured their plans, — ''Now for the fray," 

Cried fearless Nathan Hale. 

But e'er his noble task was done 
Within the foeman's bounds, 

A yell came up from Briton throats, 
He saw their shining scarlet coats — ■ 



"What, ho! a spy from Washington," 

Ah, Heaven then was he doomed to fail; 

As round a hare spring famished hounds. 
They close round Nathan Hale. 

Condemned to death the hero lay 
With shackles on his limbs, 

And mem'ry brought New London town. 

His sweetheart with her curls of brown. 
His anxious mother old and gray, 

Alas, how will they hear the tale. 
A welcome tear the blue eye dims 

Of valiant Nathan Hale. 

They led him forth 'mid gibes and jeers 
To meet the patriot's fate. 

The solace of God's Holy Word 

He asked, but ne'er a Briton stirred, 
Their oaths still fell upon his ears. 

Their robber flag waved in the gale. 
Their eyes fired by revenge and hate 

Were fixed on Nathan Hale. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



23 



iike bloodhounds eager for his gore 
They cried out, *'Hang the spy." 

Undaunted there the hero stands. 

And Hfting up his shackled hands, 
The while his captors raved and swore, 

A flush came o'er his cheek so pale 
**Back, cowards, I'll show you how to die,** 

Cried noble Nathan Hale. 

**A hundred lives, ye knaves accurst 
I'd yield, and bliss were crowned. 

To bum that blood-stained ray o'erhead, 
And raise the Stars and Stripes instead. 

I*m ready now, fiends, do your worst, 



To Freedom's glorious dawn all hail I" 
The hangman's rope is thrown around 
The neck of Nathan Hale. 



Forgotten? ne'er while Freedom's 
Shine forth in deathless light. 

From out the flag he loved so well, 
For which he lived ana iought and fell. 
His guerdon was the soldier's scars. 

And death, far from his native vale — 
Brave heart, that throbbed for love and rightj 
Brave soldier, Nathan Hale. 

Eugene Geary. 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 

[The most ample opportunity is here afforded for the practice of the aspirated and pectoral voices.} 



OME dreams we have are nothing else but 
dreams, 
Unnatural, and full of contradiction ; 
Yet others of our most romantic schemes 
Are something more than fiction 

It might be only on enchanted ground. 

It might be merely by a thought's expansion. 

But in the spirit or the flesh, I found 
An old deserted mansion. 

A residence for woman, child, and man, 
A dwelling-place and yet no habitation, 

A house — ^but under some prodigious ban 
Of excommunication. 

No dog was at the threshold, great or small, 
No pigeon on the roof, no household creature — 

No cat demurely dozing on the wall — 
Not one domestic feature. 

No human figure stirred to go or come ; 

No face looked forth from shut or open case- 
ment ; 
No chimney smoked — there was no sign of home 

From parapet to basement. 

O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear; 
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 



And said as plain as whisper in the ear— 
The place is haunted. 

No sound was heard except from far away 

The ringing of the whitwall's shrilly laughter^ 

Or now and then the chatter of the jay. 
That Echo murmured after. 

The beds were all untouched by "hand or tool; 

No footsteps marked the green and mossy gravel, 
Each walk as green as is the mantled pool 

For want of human travel. 

Over all there hung a shadow and a fear; 

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 
And said as plain as whisper in the ear — 

The place is haunted. 

The fountain was a-dry; neglect and time 

Had marred the work of artisan and mason. 
And efts and croaking frogs begot of slime 

Sprawled in the ruined basin. ; 

\ 
On every side the aspect was the same. 

All ruined, desolate, forlorn and savage; 
No hand or foot within the precinct came 

To rectify the ravage. 

For over all there hung a shadow and a fear; 
A sense of mysterv the spirit daunted, 



24 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



And said as plain as whisper in the ear— 
The place is haunted. 

Howbeit, the door I pushed — or so I dreamed — 
Which slowly, slowly gaped ; the hinges creaking 

With such a rusty eloquence, it seemed 
That Time himself was speaking. 

The startled bats flew out ; bird after bird ; 

The screech-owl overhead began to flutter, 
And seemed to mock the cry that she had h*^-ard 

Some dying victim utter! 

The very stairs and pictures on the wall, 
Assuming features horrid and terrific. 

Hinted some tragedy in that old hall. 
Locked up in hieroglyphic. 

For over all there hung a shadow and a fear; 

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted. 
And said as plain as whisper in the ear — 

The place is haunted. 

Huge drops rolled down the wall as if they wept ; 

And where the cricket used to chirp so shrilly 
The toad was squatting and the lizard crept 

On that damp hearth so chilly. 

There was so foul a rumor in the air, 
The shadow of a presence so atrocious. 

No human creature could have feasted there, 
Even the most ferocious. 



For over all there hung a shadow and a rearj 
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 

And said as plain as whisper in the ear — 
The place is haunted. 

The death-watch ticked behind the paneled oak. 
Inexplicable tremors shook the arras. 

And echoes strange and mystical awoke 
The fancy to embarrass. 

Prophetic hints that filled the sou2 with dread. 
But through one gloomy entrance mostly, 

The while some secret inspiration said — 
That chamber is the ghostly ! 

One lonely ray that glanced upon the bed 
As if with awful aim, direct and certain. 

To show the Bloody Hand in burning red, 
Embroidered on the curtain ! 

What shrieking spirit in that bloody room 
Its mortal frame had violently quitted! 

Across the sunbeam with a sudden gloom 
A ghostly shadow flitted. 

O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear; 

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 
And said as plain as whisper in the ear— 

The place is haunted ! 

Tho]vla.s Hood. 



OVER THE CROSSIN'. 




HINE? — shine, sor? Ye see I'm just a 
dyin' 
Ter turn yer two boots inter glass, 
Where ye '11 see all the sights in the winders 

'Ithout lookin' up as yer pass — 
Seen me before? I've no doubt, sor; 

I'm punctooal haar, yer know, 
Waitin' along the crossin' 

Fur a little un, name o' Joe ; 
My brother, sor, an' a cute un, 

Ba'ly turned seven, an' small. 
But ge',':'-^' his livin' grad'ely 
Tena*i4 ^ bU uv a stall 



Fur Millerkins, down the ev'nue, 
Yer kin t^c that young un's smart—* 

Worked right in like a vet 'run 
Since th' old un gin 'im a start. 

** Folks say he's a picter o' father, 

Once mate o' the Lucy Lee — 
Lost when Joe wor a baby. 

Way off in some furrin sea. 
Then mother kep' us together. 

Though nobv->dy thought she would. 
An' worked an' slaved an' froze an' starved 

yz lon^ uz ever she couJ4^ 






DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



25 



An' since she died an' left us, 

A couple o' year ago, 
We've kep' right on in Cragg alley 

A housekeepin' — I an' Joe. 
I'd just got my kit when she went, sor, 

An' people helped us a bit. 
So we managed to get on somehow; 

Joe wus alius a brave little chit — 
An' since he's got inter bisness. 

Though we don't ape princes an' sich, 
'Taint of'n we git right hungry. 

An' we feel pretty tol'able rich. 

"I used to wait at the comer, 

Jest over th' other side. 
But the notion o' bein' tended 

Sort o' ruffled the youngster's pride. 
So now I only watches 

To see that he's safe across — 
Sometimes it's a bit o' waitin', 

But, bless yer, 'tain't no loss! 
Look ! there he is now, the rascal ! 

Dodgin' across the street, 
Ter s'prise me — an' — look! I'm goin' — 

He's down by the horses' feet ! " 

Suddenly all had happened — 
The look, the cry, the spring, 

The shielding Joe as a bird shields 
Its young with sheltering wing ; 



Then up the full street of the city 

A pause of the coming rush. 
And through all the din and the tumult 

A painful minute of hush ; 
A tumble of scattered brushes. 

As they lifted him up to the walk, 
A gath'ring of curious faces. 

And snatches of whispered talk; 
Little Joe all trembling beside him 

On the flagging, with gentle grace 
Pushing the tangled, soft brown hair 

Away from the still, white face. 

At his touch the shut lids lifted, 

And swift over lip and eye 
Came a glow as when the morning 

Flushes the eastern sky; 
And a hand reached out to his brother. 

As the words came low but clear: 
'* Joe, I reckon ye mind our mother — 

A minute back she wor here, 
Smilin' an' callin' me to her ! 

I tell ye, I'm powerful glad 
Yer such a brave, smart youngster. 

The leavin' yer ain't so bad; 
Hold hard to the right things she learnt us, 

An' alius keep honest an' true ; 
Good-by, Joe — ^but mind, I'll be watchin* 

Just — over — the crossin' — fur you ! '* 



DONT BE IN A HURRY. 



^ON'T be in a hurry to answer yes or no; 

Nothing's lost by being reasonably slow. 
In a hasty moment you may give consent, 
And through years of torment leisurely repent. 

If a lover seeks you to become his wife. 
Happiness or misery may be yours for life : 
Don't be in a hurry your feelings to confess. 
But think the matter over before you answer yes. 

Should one ask forgiveness for a grave offence, 
Honest tears betraying earnest penitence. 
Pity and console him and his fears allay, 
A4id don't be in a hurry to drive the child away. 



Hurry brings us worry; worry wears us out, 
Easy going people know what they're about, 
Heedless haste will bring us surely to the ditch. 
And trouble overwhelm us if we hurry to be rich. 

Don't be in a hurry to throw yourself away; 
By the side of wisdom for a wild delay, 
Make your life worth living ; noblyact your Dart; 
And don't be in a hurry to spoil it at the start. 

Don't be in a hurry to speak an angry word; 
Don't be in ahurry to spread the tale you've heard. 
Don't be in a hurry with evil ones to go; 
And don't be in a hxyvry to answer yes cr qq. 



26 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



DON'T. 



BELIEVE, if there is one word that grown- 
up folks are more fond of using to us little 
folks, than any other word in the big dic- 
tionary, it is the word d-o-n-t. It is all the time 
^^ Don't do this," and ''Don't do that," and 
•''Don't do the other," until I am sometimes 
afraid there will be nothing left that we can do. 
Why, for years and years and years, ever since 
I was a tiny little tot, this word "Don't'' has 
been my torment. It's "Lizzie, don't make a 
noise, you disturb me," and "Lizzie, don't eat 
so much candy, it will make you sick," and 
"Lizzie, don't be so idle," and "Don't talk so 
much," and "don't soil your clothes," and 
"Don't everything else." One day I thought 
I'd count how many times I was told not to do 
things .' Just think ! I counted twenty-three 
"don'ts," and I think I missed two or three 
little ones besides. 



But now it is my turn, I have got a chance 
to talk, and I'm going to tell some of the big 
people when to Don't ! That ih what my piece 
is about. First, I shall tell the papas and mam- 
mas — Don't scold the children, just because you 
have been at a party the night before, and so 
feel cross and tired. Second, Don't fret and 
make wrinkles in your faces, over things that 
cannot be helped. I think fretting spoils big 
folks just as much as it does us little people. 
Third, Don't forget where you put your scissors, 
and then say you s'pose the children have taken 
them. Oh ! I could tell you ever so many 
"don'ts," but I think I 11 only say one more, 
and that is — Don't think I mean to be saucy, 
because all these don'ts are in my piece, and I 
had to say them. I could say a good many more 
if I were not so bashful. 

E. C. Rook. 



THE TELEGRAM. 

[Imitate the child's voice reciting.] 



C( 



S THIS the tel'graph office?" 

Asked a childish voice one day. 
As I noted the click of my instrument 
With its message from far away. 
A-s it ceased I turned; at my elbow 
Stood the merest scrap of a boy, 
Whose childish face was all aglow 
With the light of a hidden joy. 

The golden curls on his forehead 

Shaded eyes of the deepest blue. 
As if a bit of the summer sky 

Had lost in them its hue. 
They scanned my office rapidly 

From ceiling down to floor. 
They turned on mine their eager gaze, 

And he asked the question o'er. 

"Is this the tel'graph office?" 
"It is, my little man," 



I said, "pray tell me what you want 

And I'll help you if I can." 
Then the blue eyes grew more eager. 

And the breath came thick and fast, 
And I saw within the chubby hands 

A folded paper grasped. 

"Nurse told me," he said, "that the lightning 

Came down on the wires, some day; 
And my mamma has gone to heaven. 

And I'm lonely since she is away. 
For my papa is very busy 

And hasn't much time for me. 
So I fought I'd write her a letter, 

And I've brought it for you to see. 

"I've printed it big, so the angels 

Could read out quick the name, 
And carry it straight to my mamma 

And tell her how it came; 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



27 



And now^ vvon't you please to take it 
And frow it up good and strong 

Against the wires in a funder shower? 
And the lightning will take it along.*' 

Ah! What could I tell the darling? 

For my eyes were filling fast; 
I turned away to hide the tears, 

But I cheerfully spoke at last. 
"I'll do the best I can, my child," 

*Twas all that I could say; 



"Fank you," he said, then scanned the sky, 
"Do you fink it will funder to-day?" 

But the blue sky smiled in answer, 

And the sun shone dazzling bright. 
And his face, as he slowly turned away. 

Lost some of its gladsome light. 
"But nurse," he said, **if I stay so long 

Won't let me come any more; 
So good-bye, I'll come and see you again 

Right after a funder shower. ' ' 



CROSSING THE CARRY. 

[Scene.— The Adirondacks during a shower. A tAeasure-seeker and his guide on the road.] 



TOHN," said I, as we stood looking at 
^ • /r>l each other across the boat, **this rain 

@ is wet." 

''It generally is, up in this region^ I believe," 
he responded, as he wiped the water out of hi^ 
eyes with the back of his hand, and shook tne 
accumulating drops from nose and chin; "but 
the waterproof I have on has lasted me some 
thirty-eight years, and I don't think it will wet 
'hrough to-day." 

"Well!" I exclaimed, "there is no use of 
standing here in this marsh-grass any longer; 
help me to load up. I'll take the baggage, and 
you the boat." 

"You'll never get through with it, if you try 
to take it all at once. Better load light and I'll 
come back after what's left," was thj answer. 
"I tell you," he continued, "the swamp is full 
of water, and soft as muck. ' ' 

"John," said I, "that baggage is going over 
at one load, sink or swim, Kve or die, survive or 
perish. I'll make the attempt, swamp or no 
swamp. My life is assured against accidents by 
fire, water, and mud ; so here goes. What's 
life to glory ! " I exclaimed, as I seized the 
V pork -bag, and dragged it from under the boat ; 
"stand by and see me put my armor on." 

Over my back I slung the provision basket, 
made like a fisherman's creel, thirty inches by 
forty, filled with plates, coffee, salt, and all the 
impedimenta of camp and cooking utensils. This 



was held in its place by straps passing over the 
shoulders and under the arms, Hke a Jew-ped- 
dler's pack. There might have been eighty 
pounds' weight in it. Upon the top of the basket, 
John jashed my knapsack, full of bullets, pow- 
der, and clothing. My rubber suit and heavy 
blanket, slung around my neck by a leathei 
thong, hung down in front across my chest- 
On one shoulder the oars and paddles were 
balanced, with a frying pan and gridiron swing 
ing from the blades, on the other was my rifle, 
from which were suspended a pair of boots, m) 
creel, a coffee-pot, and a bag of flour. 

Taking up the bag of pork in one hand, and 
seizing the stock of the rifle with the other, from 
two fingers of which hung a tin kettle of prepared 
trout, which we were loth to throw away, I started 
Picture a man so loaded, forcing his way through 
a hemlock swamp, through whose floor of thin 
moss he sank to his knees; or picking his way 
across oozy sloughs on old roots, often covered 
with mud and water, and slippery beyond 
description, and you have me daguerreotyped 
in your mind. Well, as I said, I started. 

For some dozen rods I got on famously, and 
was congratulating myself with the thought of 
an easy transit, when a root upon which I had 
put my right foot gave way, and, plunging head- 
long into the mud, I struck an attitute of peti 
tion; while the frying-pan and gridiron, flung 
off the oars and, forward by the movement. 



2S 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



alighted upon my prostrated head. An ejacula- 
tion, not exactly religious, escaped me, and with 
a few desperate flounces I assumed once more 
the perpendicular. Fishing the frying-pan from 
the mud, and lashing the gridiron to my belt, I 
made another start. It was hard work. 

The most unnatural adjustment of weight upon 
my back made it difficult to ascertain just how 
far behind me lay the center of equilibrium. I 
found where it did not lie several times. Before 
I had gone fifty rods the camp-basket weighed 
one hundred and twenty pounds. The pork- 
bag felt as if it had several shoats in it, and the 
oar-blades stuck out in the exact form of '^n X. 
If I went one side of a tree, the oars would go 
the other side. If I backed up, they would 
manage to get entangled amid the brush. If I 
Stumbled and fell, the confounded things would 
come like a goose-yoke athwart my neck, pinning 
me down. 

As I proceeded, the mud grew deeper, the 
roots farther apart, and the blazed trees less 
frequent. Never before did I so truly realize 
the aspiration of the old hymn, — 

" O, had I the wings of a dove ! »* 

At last I reached what seemed impossible to 
pass, — ^an oozy slough, crossed here and there by 
cedar roots, smooth and slippery^ lay before me. 
From a high stump which I had climbed upon I 
gave a desperate leap. I struck where I expected, 
and a little farther. The weight of the basket, 
which was now something over two hundred 
pounds, was too much for me to check at once. 
It pressed me forward. I recovered myself, and 
the abominable oars carried me as far the other 
way. The moccasins of wet leather began to 
slip along the roots. They began to slip very 
often and at bad times. I found it necessary to 
change my position suddenly. I changed it. 
It wasn't a perfect success. I tried again. It 
seemed necessary to keep on trying. 

I suspect I did not effect the changes very 
steadily, for the trout began to jump about in 
the pail and Ily out into the mud. The gridiron 
got uneasy, and played against my side like a 
Steam-flapper. In fact, the whole baggage 



seemed endowed with supemattiral powea 
of motion. The excitement was contagious. 
In a moment, every article was jumping about 
like mad. I, in the meantime continued to 
dance a hornpipe on the slippery roots. 

Now, I am conscientiously opposed to dancing. 
I never danced. I didn't want to learn. I felt 
it was wicked for me to be hopping around on 
that root so. What an example, I thought, if 
John should see me. What would my wife say ? 
What would my deacons say ? I tried to stop. 
I couldn't. I had an astonishing dislike to sit 
down. I thought I would dance there forever, 
rather than sit down, — deacons or no deacons. 

The basket now weighed any imaginable 
number of pounds. The trout were leaping 
about my head, as if in their native element. 
The gridiron was in such rapid motion that it 
was impossible to distinguish the bars. There was, 
apparently, a whole litter of pigs in the pork- 
bag. I could not stand it longer. I concluded 
to rest awhile, I wanted to do the thing grace- 
fully. I looked around for a soft spot, and 
seeing one just behind me, I checked myself. 
My feet flew out from under me. They appeared 
to DC unusually light. I don't remember that I 
ever sat down quicker. The motion was very 
decided. The only difficulty I observed was, 
that the seat I had gracefully settled into had no 
bottom. 

The position of things was extremely pictur- 
esque. The oars were astride my neck, as usual. 
The trout-pail was bottom up, and the contents 
lying about almost anywhere. The boots were^ 
hanging on a dry limb overhead. A capital idea. , 
I thought of it as I was in the act of sitting 
down. One piece of pork lay at my feet, and 
another was sticking up, some ten feet off in the 
mud. It looked very queer, — slightly out of 
place. With the same motion with which I 
hung my boots on a limb, as 1 seated myself, I 
stuck my rifle carefully into the mud, muzzle 
downward. I never saw a gun in that position 
before. It struck me as being a good thing. 
There was no danger of its falling over and 
breaking the stock. 




PHOTO. BY MORRISON, CHICAGO 



RECITAL WITH HARP ACCOMPANIMENT 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



29 



The fiist thing I did was to pass the gridiron 
under me. When that feat had been accom- 
plished, I felt more composed. It's pleasant for 
a man in the position I was in to feel that he 
has something under him. Even a chip or a 
small stump would have felt comfortable. As I 
sat thinking how many uses a gridiron could be 
put to, and estimating where I should then have 
been if I hadn't got it under me, I heard John 
forcing his way with the boat on his back, 
through the thick undergrowth. 

*'It won't do to let John see me in this posi- 
tion," I said; and so, with a mighty effort, I 
disengaged myself from the pack, flung off the 
blanket from around my neck, and seizing hold 
of a spruce limb, which I could fortunately reach, 
drew myself slowly up. I had just time to jerk 
the rifle out of the mud, and fish up about half of 
the trout, when John came struggling along. 

'*John," said I, leaning unconcernedly against 
a tree, as if nothing had happened, — ^^^John, put 
down the boat, here's a splendid spot to rest." 

'*Well, Mr. Murray," queried John, as he 
emerged from under the boat, '*how ar^ you 
getting along ? " 

** Capitally?" said I; ''the carry is very 
level when you once get down to it. J felt a 
little out of breath, and thought I would wait 
for you a few moments. ' ' 

''What's your boots doing up there in that 
tree?" exclaimed John, as he pointed up to 
where they hung dangling from the limb, about 
fifteen feet above our heads. 

"Boots doing! " &aid I, "why, they are hang- 
ing there, don't you see? You didn't suppose 
I'd drop them into this mud, did you?" 

"Why, noj" replied John, "I don't suppose 
you would, but how about this ? ' ' continued he, 
AS he stooped down and pulled a big trout, tail 



foremost, out of the soft muck; "how did that 
trout come there ? " 

"It must have got out of the pail somehow," 
I responded. "I thought I heard something 
drop just as I sat down. ' ' 

"What in thunder is that, out there?" ex« 
claimed John, pointing to a piece of pork, one 
end of which was sticking about four inches out 
of the water ; "is that pork ? ' ' 

"Well, the fact is, John," returned I, speak- 
ing with the utmost gravity, and in a tone in- 
tended to suggest a mystery, — the fact is, John, 
I don't quite understand it. This carry seems 
to be all covered over with pork. I wouldn't 
be surprised to find a piece anywhere. There 
is another junk now," I exclaimed, as I plunged 
my moccasin into the mud ana kicked a two- 
pound bit toward him; "it's lying all round 
here "^oose. " 

I thought John would split with laughter, but 
my time came, for as in one of his paroxysms 
he turned partly around, I saw that his back was 
covered with mud clear up to his hat. 

"Do you always sit down on your coat, John, ' * 
I inquired, "when you cross a carry like this?" 

"Come, come," rejoined he, ceasing to laugh 
from very exhaustion, "take a knife or tin plate, 
and scrape the muck from my back. I always 
tell my wife to make my clothes ? ground coJor, 
but the color is laid on a 2ittlc too ^hick this 
time, any way. ' ' 

"John," said I, after having scraped him 
down, "take the paddle and spear my boots off 
from that limb up there, while I tread out this 
pork." 

Weary and hot, we reached at length the 
margin of the swamp, and our feet stood once 
more upon solid ground. 

W. H. H. Murray. 



TO THOSE WHO FAIL 

©OURAGE, brave heart, nor in thy purpose 
falter; 
Go on and win the fight at any cost, 
Though sick and weary after conflict. 
Rejoice to know the battle is not lost. 



The. field is open still to those brave spirits 
Who nobly struggle till the strife is done. 

Through sun and storm with courage all un- 
daunted 
Working and waiting till the battlers won. 



BO 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



The fairest pearls are found in deepest waters, 
The brightest jewels in the darkest mine ; 
And through the very blackest hour of midnight 
The star of Hope doth ever brightly shine. 

Press on ! press on ! the path is steep and rugged, 
The storm clouds almost hide Hope's light 
from view; 



But you can pass where other feet have trodden;— 
A few more steps may bring you safely through 

The battle o'er, a victor crowned with honors,— 
By patient toil each difficulty past, 

You then may see these days of bitter failure 
But spurred you on to greater deeds at last 

Nellie Barlow. 



NIAGARA. 




jONARCH of floods! How shall I ap- 
proach thee? — ^how speak of thy glory? 
— how extol thy beauty and grandeur ? 
Ages have seen thy awful majesty; earth has 
paid tribute to thy greatness; the best and wisest 
among men have bent the knee at thy footstool ! 
but none have described — none can describe 
thee ! Alone thou standest among the wonders 
of Nature, unshaken by the shock of contending 
elements, flinging back the flash of the lightning, 
and outroaring the thunder of Che tempest! 
Allied to the everlasting hills, — claiming kin- 
dred with the eternal flood, thou art pillared 
upon the one, the other supplies thy surge. 
Primeval rocks environ, clouds cover, and the 
rainbow crowns thee. A divine sublimity rests 
on thy fearful brow, an awful beauty is revealed 



in thy terrific countenance, the earth is shakeu 
by thy tremendous voice. 

Born in the dark past and alive to the distant 
future, what to the^ are the paltry concerns of 
man's ambitions? — the rise and fall of empires 
and dynasties, the contests of kings or the crash 
of thrones? Thou art unmoved by the fate ol 
nations, and the revolutions of the earth are tc 
thee but the pulses of time. Kings before thee 
are but men, and man, a type of insignificance. 

*'Thou dost make the soul 
A wondering witness of thy majesty; 
And while it rushes with delirious joy 
To tread thy vestibule, dost chain its steps 
And check its rapture, with the humbling vie\? 
Of its own nothingnessr ' ' 



KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GRAY. 



^"WO brown heaas with tossing curls. 
Red hps shutting over pearls. 
Bare feet, white and wet with dew. 

Two eyes black and two eyes blue — 

Little boy and girl were they 

Katie Lee and Willie Gray. 

They were standing where a brook, 
Bending like a shepherd's crook. 
Flashed its silver, and thick ranks 
Of willow fringed its mossy banks — 
Half in thought and half in play, 
Katie Lee and Willie Gray. 

They had cheeks like cherry red. 
He was taller, 'most a head; 



She with arms like wreaths of snow 
Swung a basket to and fro, 
As they loitered, half in play, 
Katie Lee and Willie Gray. 

"Pretty Katie," WilHe said. 
And there came a dash of red 
Through the brownness of the cheek, 
"Boys are strong and girls are weak. 
And I'll carry, so I will, 
Katie's basket up the hill." 

Katie answered with a laugh, 
"You shall only carry half;" 
Then said, tossing back her curls, 
*'Boys are weak as well as girls." 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



S:^ 



Do you think that Katie guessed 
Half the wisdom she expressed? 

Men are only boys grown tall; 
Hearts don't change much, after all; 
And when, long years from that day, 
Katie Lee and Willie Gray 
Stood again beside the brook 
Bending like a shepherd's crook — 

Is it strange that Willie said. 

While again a dash of red 

Crowned the brownness of his cheek, 

I am strong and you are weak; 

Life is but a slippery steep. 

Hung with shadows cold and deep. 

**Will you trust me, Katie dear? 
Walk beside me without fear? 



May I carry, if I will, 
All your burdens up the hill?" 
And she answered, with a laugh, 
**No, but you may carry half.** 

Close beside the little brook 
Bending like a shepherd's crook. 
Working with its silver hands 
Late and early at the sands, 
Stands a cottage, where, to-day, 
Katie lives with Willie Gray. 

In the porch she sits, and lo ! 
Swinging a basket to and fro. 
Vastly different from the one 
That she swung in years agone; 
This is long, and deep, and wide. 
And has rockers at the side. 



MY MOTHER. 



^HE feast was o'er. Now brimming wine. 
In lordly cup, was seen to shine 
Before each eager guest ; 
And silence filled the crowded hall 
As deep as when the herald's call 
Thrills in the loyal breast. 

Then up arose the noble host 

And, smiling cried : *'A toast! a toast! 

To all our ladies fair; 
Here, before all, I pledge the name 
Of Stanton's proud and beauteous dame, 

The Lady Gundamere." 

Quick to his feet each gallant sprang 
And joyous was the shout that rang 

As Stanley gave the word; 
And every cup was raised on high, 
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry 

Till Stanley's voice was heard. 

"Enough, enough," he, smiling, said, 
And lowly bent his haughty head ; 

"That all may have their due. 
Now each, in turn, must play his part 



And pledge the lady of his heart, 
Like a gallant knight and true." 

Then, one by one, each guest sprang u^ 
And drained in turn the brimming cup 

And named the loved one's name; 
And each, as hand on high he raised, 
His lady's grace and beauty praised. 

Her constancy and fame. 

*Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise; 

On him are fixed these countless eyes; 

. A gallant knight is he; 
Envied by some, admired by all. 
Far famed in lady's bower and hall, 
The flower of chivalry. 

St. Leon raised his kindling eye, 
And held the sparkling cup on high, 

"I drink to one," he said, 
"Whose image never may depart. 
Deep graven on this grateful heart 

Till memory be dead ; 

To one whose love for me shall last 
When lighter passions long have past. 



32 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



So deep it is, and pure; 
Whose love hath longer dwelt, I ween, 
Than any yet that pledged hath been 

By these brave knights before.'* 



Each guest up started at the word 
And laid a hand upon his sword 

With fury-flashing eye; 
And Stanley said: "We crave the name. 



Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, 
Whose love you count so high." 

St. Leon paused, as if he would 

Not breathe her name in careless mood 

Thus lightly to another; 
Then bent his noble head, as though 
To give that word the reverence due, 

And gently said, **My mother." 

Sir Walter Scott. 



WHICH LOVED BEST. 



a 



LOVE you, mother," said little Ben, 
Then forgetting his work, his cap went on. 
And he was off to the garden swing, 
And left her the water and wood to bring. 

**I love you, mother," said rosy Nell — 
^ * I love you better than tongue can tell ; ' ' 
Then she teased and pouted full half the day, 
Till her mother rejoiced when she went to play. 

*'I love you, mother," said little Fan, 
"To-day I'll help you all I can; 



How glad I am school doesn't keep ; " 
So she rocked the babe till it fell asleep. 

Then, stepping softly, she fetched the broom, 
And swept the floor and tidied the room ; 
Busy and happy all day was she. 
Helpful and happy as child could be. 
"I love you, mother," again they said 
Three little children going to bed; 
How do you think that mother guessed 
Which of them really loved her best ? 



THE BEST SEWING-MACHINE. 




'OT one? Don't say so! 
you get? 

One of the kind to open and shut? 
Ovm it or hire it? How much did you pay? 
Does it go with a crank or a treadle? S-a-y. 
I'm a single man, and somewhat green; 
Tell me about your sewing-machine. ' * 

*' listeij, my boy, and hear all about it: 
I don't know what I could do without it; 
I've owned one now for more than a year, 
And like it so well that I call it *my dear;* 
'Tis the cleverest thing that ever was seen, 
This wonderful family sewing-machine. 

"It's none of your angular Wheeler things. 
With steel-snod back and cast-iron "Wings; 
Its work would bother a hundred of his, 
And worth a thousand ! Indeed it is; 



Which Cid And has a way — you need not stare — 

Of combing and braiding its own back hair! 



"Mine is not one of those stupid affairs 
That stands in a comer with what-nots and chairs. 
And makes that dismal, neadachy noise 
Which all the comfort of sewing destroys; 
No rigid contrivance of lumber and steel, 
But one with a natural spring in the heel. 

"Mine is one of the kind to love. 
And wears a shawl and a soft kid glove ; 
Has the merriest eyes and the daintiest foot, 
And sports the charmingest gaiter-boot, 
Andabonnet with feathers, and ribbons, and k)op^ 
With any indefinite number of hoops. 

"None of your patent nmchines for me. 
Unless Dame Nature's the patentee; 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



33 



like the sort that can laugh and talk, 
And take my arm for an evening walk; 
That will do whatever the owner may choose. 
With the slightest perceptible turn of the screws; 

'One that can dance, and — possibly — flirt; 
A.nd make a pudding as well as a shirt; 
One that can sing without dropping a stitch. 
And play the housewife, lady, or witch; 
Ready to give the sagest advice. 
Or to do up your collars and things so nice. 

'* What do you think of my machine? 



A' n't it the best that ever was seen? 
'Tisn't a clumsy, mechanical toy. 
But flesh and blood ! Hear that, my looy"? 
With a turn for gossip, and household affairs, 
Which include, you know, the sewing of tears. 

"Tut, tut, don't talk. I see it all— 
You needn't keep winking so hard at the waJ* 
I know what your fidgety fumblings mean; 
You would like, yourself a sewing-machine I 
Well, get one, then, — of the same design, — 
There were plent]- left where I got mine I" 



••KILLEDl 



■'^ 



TLLEDat " What matters where? 

He is dead, and that is enough ! 

' ' Killed ! " It is written there 
In letters that stare and stare ! 
What though the telling may be rough? 
He is dead, and that is enough! 

"Died with his face to the foe. 

Trying another to save ! ' ' 

How else, how else should he die? 

I could not have loved him so 

If he had not been bravest of brave I 

Dead, and no word of gocd-bye I 

No whisper of love from afarl 

star ! star ! star ! 

1 looked in your eyes last night. 



And I saw his eyes in your light; 
And I knew, I knew he would die. 
For that was his last good-bye ! 

Get you gone ! Get you gone from my sighl 

Why do you stand and stare? 

He is dead ! It is written there 1 

And it's late — so late to-night! 

There ! there ! forgive me, but go I 

You mean to be kind, I know, 

But leave me to God and to him! 

"Killed, with his face to^the foe!** 

Leave me awhile ! The light — 

The light — is — getting — dim ! — 

Leave me — to God — ^and — to him!— 

George Wbatherlv. 



THE THREE BELLS. 

(This poem refers to the well-known rescue of the crew of an American vessel, sinking in mid-ocean, by Captain I*e?!^htoii 
f the English ship Three B.ells. Unable to take them oflf, in the night and the storm, he stayed by them until morning, ^out 
ig to them from time to time through his trumpet, '* Never fear, hold on, I'll stand by you."] 



ENEATH the low-hung night cloud 
That raked her splintering mast, 

The good ship settled slowly. 
The cruel leak gained fast. 

Over the awful ocean 

Her signal guns pealed out; 
Dear God ! was that thy answer, 

From the horror round about? 



A voice came down the wild wind,— 
** Ho ! ship ahoy ! " its cry : 

**Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow 
Shall stand till daylight by!" 

Hour after hour crept slowly. 
Yet on the heaving swells 

Tossed up and down the ship-lightSv 
The lights of the Three Bells. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS, 



And ship to ship made signals; 

Man answered back to man; 
While oft, to cheer and hearten. 

The Three Bells nearer ran. 

And the captain from her taffrail 
Sent down his hopeful cry : 

"Take heart ! hold on ! " he shouted, 
**The Three Bells shall stand by ! '* 

All night across the waters 

The tossing lights shone clear; 

All night from reeling taffrail 
The Three Bells sent her cheer. 



And when the dreary watches 
Of storm and darkness passed, 

Just as the wreck lurched under, 
All souls were saved at last. 

Sail on, Three Bells, forever, 

In grateful memory sail ! 
Ring on. Three Bells of rescue. 

Above the wave and gale ! 

As thine, in night and tempest, 

I hear the Master's cry. 
And, tossing through the darkness. 

The lights of God draw nigh. 

John G. Whittier, 



1 



PITCHER OR JUG. 



■ HEY toiled together side by side. 

In the field where the corn was growing; 
They paused awhile to quench their thirst. 
Grown weary with the hoeing. 

*'I fear, my friend," I said to one. 

That you will ne'er be richer; 
You drink, I see, from the little brown jug, 

Whilst your friend drinks from the pitcher. 

*'One is filled with alcohol. 

The fiery drink from the still ; 
The other with water clear and cool 

From the spring at the foot of the hill. 



"In all of life's best gifts, my friend, 

I fear you will ne'er be richer. 
Unless you leave the little brown jug. 

And drink, like your friend, from the pitchej 

My words have proved a prophecy. 

For years have passed away ; 
How do you think have fared our friends. 

That toiled in the fields that day? 

One is a reeling, drun'fecn sot. 
Grown poorer instead of richer ; 

The other has won both wealth and fame. 
And he always drank from the pitcher. 

M. P. CHiCif 



GUILD'S SIGNAL. 



»W0 low whistles, quaint and clear. 

That was the signal of the engineer- 
That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said — 
Gave to his wife at Providence, 
As through the sleeping town, and thence 
Out in the night. 
On to the Hght, 
Down past the farms, lying white, he sped ! 

As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt, 
Yet to the woman looking out. 



Watching and waiting, no serenade. 

Love-song, or midnight roundelay. 
Said what that whistle seemed to say: 

*'To my trust true. 

So love to you ! 
Working or waiting, good night! " it said. 

Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine. 
Old commuters along the line, 

Brakemen and porters glanced ahead. 
Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



35 



Kerced through the shadows of Providence — 

'* Nothing amiss — 
Nothing ! — It is 
Only Guild calling his wife, ' ' they said. 

Summer and winter, the old refrain 

Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, 

Pierced through the budding boughs o'erhead. 
Flew down the track when the red sheaves burned 

Like living coals from the engine spurned; 
Sang as it flew: 



'*To our trust true. 
First of all duty ! Good night ! " it said. 
And then, one night, it was heard no more 

From Stonington over Rhode Island shore; 
And the folk in Providence smiled and said, 

As they turned in their beds, *'The engineer 
Has once forgotten his midnight cheer. ' ' 
One only knew. 
To his trust true. 
Guild lay under his engine, dead. 

Bret Harte. 



LITTLE CHRISTEL. 



FRAULEIN, the young schoolmistress, to 
her pupils said one day, 
**Next week, at Pfingster holiday. King 
Ludwig rides this way ; 
And you will be wise, my little ones, to work 

with a will at your tasks. 
That so you may answer fearlessly whatever 

question he asks. 
It would be a shame too dreadful if the King 

should have it to tell 
That Hansel missed in his figures, and Peterkin 
could not spell." 

"Oho ! that never shall happen," cried Hansel 

and Peterkin too; 
"We'll show King Ludwig, when he comes, 

what the boys in this school can do." 
"And we, ' ' said Gretchen and Bertha, and all 

the fair little maids 
Who stood in a row before her, with their hair 

in flaxen braids, 
^ "We will pay such good attention to every 

word you say 
That }^ou shall not be ashamed of us when King 

Ludwig rides this way. ' ' 

She smiled, the young schoolmistress, to see that 

they loved her so, 
^d with patient care she taught them the 

things it was good to know. 
l)ay after day she drilled them till the great day 

came at last. 



When the heralds going before him blew out 

their sounding blast ; 
And with music, and flying "banners, and the 

clatter of horses' feet. 
The King and his troops of soldiers rode dowq 

the village street 

Oh ! the hearts of the eager children beat fast 

with joy and fear. 
And Fraulein trembled and grew pale as the 

cavalcade drew near ; 
But she blushed with pride and pleasure vvhen 

the lessons came to be heard. 
For in all the flock of the boys and girls not 

one of them missed a word. 
And King Ludwig turned to the teacher with a 

smile and a gracious look ; 
**It is plain," said he, ''that your scholars have 

carefully conned their book. 

"But now let us ask some questions, to see if 

they understand : ' ' 
And he showed to one of the little maids an 

orange in his hand. 
It was Christel, the youngest sister of the mis. 

tress fair and kind — 
A child with a face like a lily, and as lovely and 

pure a mind. 
"What kingdom does this belong to?" as he 

called her to his knee ; 
And at once — "The vegetable," she answered 

quietly. 



36 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



*'Good," said the monarch, kindly, and showed 
her a piece of gold ; 

'<Now tell me what this belongs to — the pretty- 
coin that I hold. ' ' 

She touched it with careful finger, for gold was 
a metal rare, 

And then — **The mineral kingdom!" she 
answered with confident air. 

** Well done for the little madchen !" And good 
King Ludwig smiled 

At Fraulein and her sister, the teacher and the 
child. 

'* Now answer me one more question ' * — ^with a 

twinkle of fun in his eye : 
**What kingdom do I belong to?" For he 

thought she would make reply, 
**The animal;" and he meant to ask with a 

frown if that was the thing 
For a little child like her to say to her lord and 

master, the king ? 
He knew not the artless wisdom that would set 

his wit at naught. 
And the little Christel guessed nothing at all of 

what was in his thought. 

But her glance shot up at the question, and the 
brightness in her face. 

Like a sunbeam on a lily, seemed to shine all 
over the place. 

" What kingdom do you belong to?" her inno- 
cent lips repeat ; 



** Why, surely, the kingdom oi Heaven !" rings 

out the answer sweet. 
And then for a breathless moment a sudden 

silence fell. 
And you might have heard the fall of a leaf as 

they looked at little Christel. 

But it only lasted a moment, then rose as sud- 
den a shout — 

<'Well done! well done for little Christel!" 
and the bravos rang about. 

For the king in his arms had caught her, to her 
wondering shy surprise. 

And over and over he kissed her with a mist of 
tears in his eyes. 

*'May the blessing of God," he murmured, 
*' forever rest on thy head ! 

Henceforth, by His grace, my life shall prove 
the truth of what thou has said. ' ' 

He gave her the yellow orange, and the golGen 

coin for her own. 
And the school had a royal feast that day whose 

like they had never known. 
To Fraulein, the gentle mistress, he spoke such 

words of cheer 
That they lightened her anxious labor for many 

and many a year. 
And because in his heart was hidden the memory 

of this thing. 
The Lord had a better servant, the people a wiser 

King! 

Mrs. Mary E. Bradley. 



THE* FIRE-FIEND. 



-^^ARK! hark! o'er the city, alarm bells 
^Sy ring out, 

C Cling, clang! ''fire, fire!" each tone 

seems to shout. 
** Come on," cries a voice, '* there is work to be 

done," 
So forth for our steamer and hose -cart we run ! 
Here they are ! Roll them out ! now quick, let 

us fly ! 
"Clear the track! turn out! fire! fire!" is our cry. 



*' Ha ! ha! here we are! Yes, the Fire-Fiend is 
out! 

Just see the smoke roll, while the flames leap 
about ; 

Unroll the hose, quick; pull to the tank, 
boys; 

Make fast to the steamer now! listen to its noise! 

There go the water-jets high in the air ! 

Dash them on ! higher ! higher ! flames every- 
where." 




But mow nz lauG/hed; C^ 



Ht5 WOfXTH A DOZCN 60/3 ^ 
WHO PO U T A N P A\0 P E /^J 



THE BOY THAT LAUGHS 




Sh^ 



T}iP££ eORP5£5 LAYOUT Ufl x 



sk^: 



fOR MKn MU5T WORK 
AMD WOM£M MU5T VVE£P 



J 



THREE FISHERS WENT SAILING 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONb. 



37 



But stay! a wild cry rises loud o'er the din, 

A woman is shrieking, **my child sleeps within, 

Help ! help ! can ye stand, oh men, here and see 

A little child die, yet do nothing for me? 

She bmns ! she is lost ! ' * shrieks the mother, 

half wild, 
''Are ye men? have ye hearts? then help my 

poor child." 

"Be calm," cried a fireman, young, sturdy and 

brave, 
"I die in yon flames, or ypur child I will save! 
^o! ladders, quick! quick! hoist them up to 

the wall, — 
Now, steady! God help me! Oh,what if Ifall?" 
One glance -up to heaven, one short prayer he 

spoke, 
Sprang up, and was hidden by darkness and 

smoke. 

On her knees sank the mother, lips moving in 

prayer. 
While fear sent a thrill through the crowd 

gathered there. 
Breathless silence prevailed, none speaking a 

word, 
' While pufls from the engine alone could be 

heard. 
All eyes remained fixed on the window above. 
Where last stood a hero whom angels might love. 



** Will he ever come back?** No sound in reply 

Save the Fire-Fiend's laugh, as he leaps up so 
high. 

Catching windows and doors, woodwork, linteL 
and all, 

While **bum with all speed," seems his con" 
quering call, 

** Spare nothing, speed onward! In this 1 
delight ! 

Two victims are mine! I am king here to- 
night." 

Not so! Oh, not so! for 'mid joy-speaking 

cheers, 
A fireman with child on the ladder appears; 
Blackened, yet safe, he descends to the ground, 
Gives the babe to its mother, then looks calmly 

round, 
'* Thank God, that he gave me the strength this 

to do!" 
"We will," cried a voice, "but we al^ thank 

you!'' 
The Fire-Fiend rushed by on his merciless path, 
At losing his victims he seemed full of wrath; 
He sputtered and hissed his unceasing reproof, 
Until with a crash, inward tumbled the roof. 
Then, 'mid water and work, 'mid laughter and 

shout. 
The Fiend slunk away, and the fire was out. 

Jessie Glenn 



SUCCESS IN LIFE. 



fOETS may be born, but success is made ; 
therefore let me beg of you, in the outset 
of your career, to dismiss from your 
j minds all ideas of succeeding by luck. 

There is no more common thought among 
young people than that foolish one that by and 
by something will turn up by which they will 
suddenly achieve fame or fortune. Luck is an 
ignis fatuus. You may follow it to ruin, but not 
to success. The great Napoleon, who believed 
in his destiny, followed it until he saw his star 
go down in blackest night, when the Old Guard 
perished around him, and Waterloo was lost. A 
pound of pluck is worth a ton of luck. 



Young men talk of trusting to the spur of the 
occasion. That trust is vain. Occasion cannov 
make spurs. If you expect to wear spurs, you 
must win them. If you wish to use them, you 
must buckle them to your own heels before you 
go into the fight. Any success you may achieve 
is not worth having unless you fight for it. 
Whatever you win in life you must conquer by 
your own efforts, and then it is yours — a part of 
yourself. 

Again : in order to have any success in life, 
or any worthy success, you mu3t resolve to carry 
into your work a fulness of knowledge — not 
merely a sufficiency, but more than a sufficiency' 



38 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



Be fit for more than the thing you are now doing. 
Let every one know that you have a reserve in 
yourself; that you have more power than you 
are now using. If you are not too large for the 
place you occupy, you are too small for it. 
How full our country is of bright examples, not 
only of those who occupy some proud eminence 
in public life, but in every place you may find 
men going on with steady nerve, attracting the 
attention of their fellow-citizens, and carving 
out for themselves names and fortunes from 
small and humble beginnings and in the face of 
formidable obstacles. 

Let not poverty stand as an obstacle in your 
way. Poverty is uncomfortable, as I can testify ; 
but nine times out of ten the best thing that can 
happen to a young man is to be tossed over- 
board, and compelled to sink or swim for him- 
self. In all my acquaintance, I have never 
known one to be drowned who was worth the 
saving. This would not be wholly true in any 
country but one of political equality like ours. 

The reason is this : In the aristocracies of the 
Old World, wealth and society are built up like 
the strata of rock which compose the crust of the 
earth. If a boy be born in the lowest stratum of 
life, it is almost impossible for him to rise through 
this hard crust into the higher ranks ; but in this 
country it is not so. The strata of our society 



resemble rather the ocean, where every drop, 
even the lowest, is free to mingle with all others, 
and may shine at last on the crest of the highest 
wave. This is the glory of our country, and 
you need not fear that there are any obstacles 
which will prove too great for any brave 
heart. 

In giving you being, God locked up in your 
nature certain forces and capabilities. What 
will you do with them ? Look at the mechanism 
of a clock. Take off the pendulum and rachet, 
and the wheels go rattling dov/n and all its force 
is expended in a moment ; but properly balanced 
and regulated, it will go on, letting out its force 
ticlc by tick, measuring hours and days, and 
doing faithfully the service for which it was 
designed. I implore you to cherish and guard 
and use well the forces that God has given to 
you. You may let them run down in a year, if 
you will. Take off the strong curb of discipline 
and morality, and you will be an old man before 
your twenties are passed. Preserve these forces. 
Do not burn them out with brandy, or waste 
them in idleness and crime. Do not destroy 
them. Do not use them unworthily. Save and 
protect them, that they may save for you fortune 
and fame. Honestly resolve to do this, and you 
will be an honor to yourself and to your country. 
James A. Garfield. 



THE SPANISH MOTHER. 

[Supposed to be related by a veteran French officer.] 

¥ES ! I have served that noble chief through- 
out his proud career, 
And heard the bullets whistle past in lands 
both far and near — 
Amidst Italian flowers, below the dark pines of 

the north, 
Where'er the Emperor willed to pour his clouds 
of battle forth. 



*Twas then a splendid sight to see, though terri- 
ble, I ween, 

How his vast spirit filled and moved the wheels 
of the machine; 



Wide sounding leagues of sentient steel, and 

fires that lived to kill. 
Were but the echo of his voice, the body of his 

will. 



But now my heart is darkened with the shadows 

that rise and fall 
Between the sunlight and the ground to sadden 

and appall : 
The woeful things both seen and done we heeded 

little then, 
But they return, like ghosts, to shake the sleep 

of aged men. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



39 



The ©ermaix «,^d the Englishman were each an 

open foe, 
And open hatred hurled us back from Russia's 

blinding snow ; 
Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires un- 

quenched, remain 
iThe dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the 

brooding soul of Spain. 

I saw a village in the hills, as silent as a dream, 

Naught stirring but the summer sound of a 
merry mountain stream ; 

The evening star just smiled from heaven with 
its quiet silver eye, 

And the chestnut woods were still and calm be- 
neath the deepening sky. 

But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man lior 

beast we found. 
Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor com 

upon the ground ; 
Each roofless hut was black with smoke, 

wrenched up each trailing vine. 
Each path was foul with mangled meat and 

floods of wasted wine. 

We had been marching, travel-worn, a long and 

burning way. 
And when such welcoming we met, after that 

toilsome day. 
The pulses in our maddened breasts were human 

hearts no more, 
But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent 

of gore. 

We lighted on one dying man, they slew him 

where he lay ; 
His wife, close-clinging, from the corpse they 

tore and wrenched away ; 
They thundered in her widowed ears with frowns 
' and curses grim, 

/**Food, woman — food and wine, or else we tear 

thee limb from limb." 

The woman shaking off his blood, rose, raven- 
haired and tall, 



And our stem glances quailed before one stemet 

far than all. 
''Both food and wine,'* she said, "I have; I 

meant them for the dead. 
But ye are living still, and so let them be yours 

instead." 

The food was brought, the wine was brought out 
of a secret place. 

But each one paused aghast, and looked into his 
neighbor's face; 

Her haughty step and settled brow, and chill in- 
different mien. 

Suited so strangely with the gloom and grimness 
of the scene. 

She glided here, she glided there, before our 
wondering eyes. 

Nor anger showed, nor shame, nor fear, nor sor- 
row, nor surprise ; 

At every step, from soul to soul a nameless horrox 
ran. 

And made us pale and silent as that silent mur- 
dered man. 

She sat, and calmly soothed her child into a 

slumber sweet ; 
Calmly the bright blood on the floor crawled ^ed 

around our feet. 
On placid fmits and bread lay soft the shadowb 

of the wine. 
And we like marble statutes glared — z. chill, un- 

moving line. 

All whit^, all cold.; and moments thus flew by 
without a breath, 

A company of living things where all was still-- 
but death ; 

My hair rose up from roots of ice as there un- 
nerved I stood 

And watched the only thing that stirred — the 
rippling of the blood. 

That woman's voice was heard at length, it broke 

the solemn spell, 
And human fear, displacing awe, upon our spirit: 

fell— 



40 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



**Hol slayei^ of the sinewless! Ho! tramplers 
of the weak ! 

What! shrink ye from the ghastly meats and life- 
bought wine ye seek? 

•'Feed, and begone! I wish to weep — I bring 

you out my store — 
Devour it — waste it all — ^and then — ^pass and be 

seen no more. 
Poison ! Is that your craven fear? * * She snatched 

the goblet up 
And raised it to her queen-like head, as if to 

drain the cup. 

But our fierce leader grasped her wrist — '*No, 

woman! No!" he said, 
"A mother's heart of love is deep— give it your 

child instead." 
She only smiled a bitter smile — "Frenchmen, I 

do not shrink — 
As pledge of my fidelity, behold the infant 

drink!" 

He fixed on hers his broad black eyes, scanning 

her inmost soul ; 
But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned 

the bowl. 
And we with lightsome hardihood, dismissing 

idle care, 
Sat down to eat and drink and laugh over our 

dainty fare. 

The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting 

wild and light; 
But /was fevered with the march, and drank no 

wine that night; 
I just had filled a single cup, when through my 

very brain 
Stung, sharper than a serpent's tooth, an infant's 

cry of pain. 

Through all that heat of revelry, through all that 

boisterous cheer, 
To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a 

frozen spear. 



**Aye '' shrieked the woman, darting up, *'I 

pray you trust again 
A widow's hospitality in our unyielding Spain. 

"Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God 

Himself I swore 
To treat you as you treated him — that body om 

the floor. 
Yon secret place I filled, to feel, that if ye did 

not spare. 
The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden 

there. 

"A mother's love is deep, no doubt ; ye did not 

phrase it ill. 
But in your hunger ye forgot, that hate is deeper 

still. 
The Spanish woman speaks for Spain; for her 

butchered love, the wife, 
To tell you that an hour is all my vintage leaves 

of life." 

I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair 

put on, 
Nor count the crowded brave who sleep beneath 

a single stone ; 
I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour 

went by, 
I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die. 

But though on her wrenched limbs they leaped 

like beasts of prey. 
And with fierce hands, like madmen, tore the 

quivering life away — 
Triumphant hate and jo}^ous scorn, without a 

trace of pain, 
Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that 

haughty eye of Spain. 

And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult 

vague and wild. 
Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds, around the 

mother and her child- 
While she, distinct in raiment white, stands 

silently the while. 
And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the 

same unchanging smile. 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle, 



I 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



41 



A RACE FOR LIFE. 



/^ GUN is heard at Ihe dead of night, 
L^ ''Lifeboat ready!" 

I And every man to the signal true 
Fights for the place in the eager crew; 

**Now, lads, steady!" 
jirst a glance at the shuddering foam, 
Now a look at the loving home. 
Then together with bated breath, 
They launched their boat in the gulf ot death. 
Over the breakers wild, 
Little they reck of weather. 
But tear their way 
Thro' blinding spray. 
Hear the skipper cheer and say : 
**Up with her lads, and lift her 
All together ! " 

Tney see the ship in a sudden flash, 

Sinking ever ; 
And grip their oars with a deeper breath. 
Now it comes to a fight with death ; 

Now or never ! 
Fifty strokes and they're at her side. 
If they live in the boiling tide. 
If they last through the awful strife ; 
Ah, my lads, it's a race for life I 



Over the breakers wild. 
Little they reck of weather. 
But tear their way 
Thro' blinding spray. 
Hear the skipper cheer and saf, 
"Up with her, lads, and Hft her 
All together ! " 

And loving hearts are on the shore. 

Hoping, fearing; 
Till over the sea there comes a cheer. 
Then the click of the oars you hear 

Homeward steering. 
Ne'er a thought ^f che d?.nger past. 
Now the lads are on land at last ; 
What's a storm to the gallant crew 
Who race for life, and who win it, tooV 
Over the breakers wild. 
Little they reck of weather. 
But tear their way 
Thro' blinding spray. 
Hear the skipper cheer and say, 
**Up with her, lads, and lift her 
All together 1 " 

J. L. Malu> 



AN ARABIAN TALE. 



^O the manly will there's ever a way'. '* 
Said a simple Arab youth; 
And I'm going to try, this very day. 
If my teacher tells the truth ; 
He's always saying — the good old man — 

* Now please remember, my dear, 
ifou are sure to win, whatever your plan. 
If you steadily persevere 1 ' 

"I mean to try it — ^upon my life I — 

If I go through fire and water; 
And, since I wish to marry a wife, 

I'll have the Califs daughter! '* 
So off to the Vizier straight he goes. 

Who only laughed at the lad, 



And said him ''Nay" — as you may suppose 
For he thought the fellow was mad ! 

And still for many and many a day 

He came to plead his case. 
But the Vizier only answered "Nay," , 

And laughed him in the face. 
At last the Calif came across 

The youth in the Vizier's hall, 
And, asking what his errand was. 

The Vizier told him all. 

"Now by my head ! " the Cahf said 
"'Tis only the wise and the great 
A Califs daughter may ask to wecj, 



42 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



For rank with rank must mate ; 
Unless, mayhap, some vaHant deed 

May serve for an equal claim — 
For merit, I own, should have its meed. 

And princes yield to Fame. 

"In the Tigris once a gem was lost, 

'Twas ages and ages since. 
A ruby of wondrous size and cost. 

And fit for the noblest prince. 
That gem, my lad, must surely be 

Somewhere beneath the water; 
Go, find it, boy, and bring it to me, 

Then come and marry my daughter J ^' 

*'And so I will," the lad replied. 

And off to the river he ran ; 
And he dips away at the foamy tide 

As fast as ever he can, 
With a little cup he dips away; 

Now what' s the fellow about ? 
He's going to find the gem some day 

By draining the Tigris out : 



And still he dips by day and nigh(^ 

Till the fishes begin to cry; 
**This fellow is such a willful wight 

He'll dip the river dry! " 
And so they sent their monarch to say 

(A wise and reverend fish), 
'*Now, why are you dipping our water away ? 
And what do you please to wish?" 

'*I want the Ruby, sir," he cried; 

**Well — please let us alone. 
And stop your dipping, ' ' the fish-king cried, 

**And the gem shall be your own ! " 
And he fetched the Ruby of wondrous sizt 

From out the foamy water. 
And so the lad obtained his prize 

And wed the Califs daughter! 

MORAL. 

This pleasant story was meant to teach 

That pluck is more than skill ; 
And few are the ends beyond the reach 

Of a strong, untiring will ! 



LA5T CHARGE OF NEY. 



HE whole continental struggle exhibited no 
sublimer spectacle than this last effort of 
Napoleon to save his sinking empire. 
Europe had been put upon the plains of Waterloo 
to be battled for. The greatest military energy 
and skill the world possessed had been tasked to 
the utmost during the day. Thrones were tot- 
tering on the ensanguined field, and the shadows 
of fugitive kings flitted through the smoke of 
battle. Bonaparte's star trembled in the zenith 
— now blazing out in its ancient splendor, now 
suddenly paling before his anxious eye. At 
length, when the Prussians appeared on the field, 
he resolved to stake Europe on one bold throw. 
He committed himself and France to Ney, and 
saw his empire rest on a single chance. 

Ney felt the pressure of the immense responsi- 
bility on his brave heart, and resolved not to 
prove unworthy of the great trust committed to 
his care. Nothing could be more imposing than 



the movement of that grand column to the assault. 
That guard had never yet recoiled before a human 
foe, and the allied forces beheld with awe its firm 
and terrible advance to the final charge. For a 
moment the batteries stopped playing, and the 
firing ceased along the Brit h lines, as without 
the beating of a drum, or the blast of a bugle, to 
cheer their steady courage, they moved in dead 
silence over the plain. 

The next moment the artillery opened, and 
the head of that gallant column seemed to sink 
into the earth. Rank after rank went down, yet 
they neither stopped nor faltered. Dissolving 
squadrons, and whole battalions disappearing one 
after another in the destructive fire, affected not 
their steady courage. The ranks closed up as 
before and each treading over his fallen comrade, 
pressed firmly on. The horse which Ney rode 
fell under him, and he had scarcely mounted 
another before it also sunk to the earth. Again 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



43 



dad again did that unflinching man feel his steed 
sink down, till five had been shot under him. 
Then, with his uniform riddled with bullets, and 
his face singed and blackened with powder, he 
marched on foot with drawn sabre, at the head 
of his men. In vain did the artillery hurl its 
storm of fire and lead into that living mass. Up 
to the very muzzles they pressed, and driving 
the artillerymen from their own pieces, pushed 
on through the English lines. But at that 
moment a file of soldiers who had lain flat on the 
ground, behind a low ridge of earth, suddenly 
rose and poured a volley in their very faces. 
Another and another followed till one broad 
sheet of flame rolled on their bosoms, and in 
such a fierce and unexpected flow, that human 
courage could not withstand it. They reeled, 
shook staggered back, then turned and fled. 
Ney was borne back in the refluent tide, and 
hurried over the field. 



But for the crowd of fugitives that forced him 
on, he would have stood alone, and fallen in his 
footsteps. As it was, disdaining to fly, though 
the whole army was flying, he formed his men 
into two immense squares, and endeavored to 
stem the terrific current, and would have done 
so, had it not been for the thirty thousand fresh 
Prussians that pressed on his exhausted ranks. 
For a long time these squares stood and let the 
artillery plough through them. But the fate of 
Napoleon was writ, and though Ney doubtless 
did what no other man in the army could have 
done, the decree could not be reversed. The 
star that had blazed so brightly over the world,, 
went down in blood, the *' bravest of the brave" 
had fought his last battle. It was worthy of hii 
great name, and the charge of the Old Guard at 
Waterloo, with him at their head, will be pointed 
to by remotest generations with a shudder. 

J. T. HeadleYo 



THE SONG OF THE HEADLIGHT. 




'HEN the full moon lays a radiant haze 
From earth to heaven's wall, 
Or the tranquil stars mark the viewless 
bars 

Whence the arrows of vision fall. 

Or I send my glance where the quick drops dance 

With the pattering call of the rain. 

To their comrades asleep in the hidden deep 

Of the subterranean main, 

Or if storms are out and the free winds shout 

With fitful falls and swells, 

A steadfast glow of light I throw 

On my gleaming parallels. 

I guide the train o'er the level plain, 

A swiftly nearing star, 

And I bend and swerve where the mountains 

curve 
My iron-bound path to bar. 
Up their rocky steeps the fleet flame leaps, 
Or I flash to their depths below. 
Till the mosses that dress each dim recess, 
And the nodding ferns I show ; 



I spring to illume the frowning gloom 
Of precipices gray. 
And waters smile from the deep defile 
In my momentary day. 

Where the wood benign with beck a,nd sign 

Invites all timid things 

To its shelter spread for the crouching head^. 

And its covert for drooping wings, 

I bear my light, till in vain affright 

The doe with her trembhng fawn 

And the creatures meek that refuge seek 

In the forest shade withdrawn, 

Press closer yet to the copse dew-wet, 

Or speed through the whispering grass. 

To hide them away from the searching ray 

I shoot through the dark as I pass. 

As a meteor flies in star-set skies 

By a myriad moveless spheres, 

I hurry along where lamplights throng 

As the sleeping town appears ; 

Like the coming of Fate, to those who wait 



M 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



Till 1 bear their loved away, 

I seem as I shine down the widening line. 

Ere I pause for a moment's stay ; 

But he who feels those rolling wheels 

Lead home, to his heart's desire, 

Can half believe his eyes perceive 

The prophet's chariot of fire. 

Still on and on till the night is gone 
I follow the vibrant rails. 



Till the east is red, and overhea. 

The star of the morning pales. 

As foes may fear the soldier's spear 

But comrades have no dread, 

The lances of light I hurled at the night 

Pierce not where the sunbeams spread. 

So I cease my rays ivhen the heaven ablazJ 

Proclaims the darkness fled. 

Hardy Jackson. 



SIR RUPERT'S WIFE. 



¥OU see where the cliffs frown yonder in a 
line of dingy red ? 
That wild, fierce crag, the highest, is known 
as Sir Rupert's Head : 
It*s five hundred feet and over from the brow to 

the sea below. 
And it won it's name in the winter, a hundred 

years ago. 
There wasn't a squire in Devon so famous as 

Rupert Leigh ; 
He was the lord of the broad, rich acres, good- 
looking and fancy free. 
He came of a race of giants, stood six feet two 

in his socksy 
And once, for a drunken -v^g^r, with his fist he 
had felled an ox. 

Dare-devil Leigh was his nick-name ; he was last 

of a lawless line 
Who had gone to the deuce full gallop, through 

women and cards and wine. 
He wasn't sc bad as they were — ^he was more of 

a hunting squire. 
And he freed the name a little from some of the 

ancient mire. 
His wasn't an easy country, but he'd take it 

every inch. 
And ride as straight as an arrow where the boldest 

well might flinch. 
When a lad he had climbed yon headland, climbed 

it from base to crest. 
For a short-frocked hussy who wanted the eggs 

from a sea-^ll's nest. 



One winter he went to London — ^he then was 

about forty-three ; 
His steward had told the parson he'd lawyers in 

town to see. 
'Twas dull in the place without him, for his man- 
sion was Liberty Hall ; 
There was always a warm, wet welcome for 

neighbors who chose to call. 
He was gone for a twelvemonth nearly, writing 

to no old friends. 
But a Devonshire man in London news to the 

parson sends. 
Sir, Rupert had married a madam, a play-acting 

mincing wench. 
Who painted and patched and powdered, and 

was finiking, fine and French- 
She was no more French than I am, but ;^is was 

about the time, 
That French was the title given to nigh every 

kind of crime. 
She sang in a minor play-house — in opera, so 

they say — 
And he saw her as Polly Peachum in that famous 

work by Gay. 
He was always an easy target for a wench*s roll- 
ing eye, 
So it got to bouquets and presents, and to letters 

by-and-by, 
He was wax in the hussy's fingers, and she moulded 

with practiced skill, 
Till he took the form of a husband, the slave of 

her slightest will. 




With her waves of golden hair 

Floatiug free, 
Hilda ran along the shore, 
Gazing oft the waters o'er; 
And the fishermen replied: 
'He will come in with the tide,* 
As they saw her golden hair 

Moating free ! 




L 



THE NEW COOK. 
«« » Will you iver be done wid your gianeness,* she 

axed me wid a loud scrame." 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



45 



They traveled about a little, saw Paris, the Hague 
and Rome — 

Then the news went abroad Sir Rupert was bring- 
ing his lady home. 

The people about here liked him, and no warmth 
did their welcome lack, 

Bu*" they looked askance at my lady, and she 
gave them their glances back. 

They hated her then directly, they chafed at her 
cold disdain, 

And they gossiped her story over in language a 
bit too plain. 

They called her a '^ stuck-up stroller, ' ' and some- 
how the scandal grew. 

Till my lady as * ' Polly Peachum ' ' the whole 
of the country knew. 

Sir Rupert was broken-hearted when he heard of 

the mocking tone. 
And he quarreled with all his comrades until he 

was left alone — 
Alone at the Hall with *^ Polly," for the gentry 

had cut her dead. 
But his heart was as true as ever to the woman he 

had stooped to wed. 
To him she was just an angel who had come from 

the holy skies 
That his heart might bask forever in the light of 

her lustrous eyes. 
No wine, no cards, and no hunting : he kept at 

my lady's side — 
*Twas a great big boy with a sweetheart, not a 

man with a year-won bride. 

She pined in the lonely mansion: she wanted 

society-life — 
She wanted to play my lady as well as Sir Rupert's 

wife. 
Sir Rupert must ask a party — not of bumpkins, 

but folks from the town ; 
He had plenty of friends in London ; would he 

not ask them down ? 
They came, and the sound of laughter rang 

through the Hall once more, 
And my lady was proud and happy, but her 

husband's heart was sore; 



He had learned from an idle whisper-^ -a whisper 

not meant for him — 
A secret that sapped his life-blood and the strength 

of each stalwart limb. 

He reeled when he heard the whisper and guessed 

at the ghastly truth : 
'Twas the tale of a play-woman and a curled and 

scented youth, 
A dandy of six-and-twenty, the son of an old, 

old chum — 
He was one of the guests invited, and one of the 

first to come. 
Sir Rupert had been in London a guest of his 

father's, too. 
And this young fop, he remembered, had led 

him his wife to woo ; 
He had raved of this Polly Peachum, and dragged 

him to hear her sing ; 
He said at the time he knew her — 'twas a planned 

and plotted thing ! 

And now she was always with him, they chatted 

and laughed away ; 
She was cold and dull with Sir Rupert, — with 

him she was kind and gay. 
She was weary of playing my lady, and of being 

Sir Rupert's wife — 
She pined for the tinsel glories of the old Bohe- 
mian life; 
She hated the dull decorum, she hated the legal 

tie — 
Her cage was a cage, though gilded. Then the 

tempter whispered * ' Fly ! ' ' 
One night their chairs were empty, and slowly 

the news leaked out: 
Two horses were gone from the stable — 'twas a 

settled thing, no doubt. 

Sir Rupert was white with horror, but he turned 

to the gaping crew 
And cried, *'It's a lie, I tell you! —who dares 

to say it's true?" 
Then seizing his holster pistols, he mounted hii 

fleetest mare 



46 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



And made straight for the Red Cliff roadway — 

he guessed they had gone by there. 
For that was the way to London, from Exmoxith 

the pair would post, 
And the road they were bound to travel was the 

road by the rugged coast. 
If you look you will see it passes right over the 

headland's brow — 
Only a century distant it wasn't as good as now. 

He dug his spurs in the hunter, and it flew up 

the fearful steep, 
'Twas a wild, fierce night in winter, and the 

snow lay thick and deep; 
But the moon through the clouds had broken, 

and right on the Head he spied 
A horse that had slipped and fallen, and the 

rider by its side ; 
And over them bent a figure, but whose he 

could scarcely see. 
Then he uttered a cry to Heaven that his wife 

unharmed might be; 
And lashing his steed to fury it flew through the 

slippery snow, 
While the wild waves roared a warning five 

hundred feet below. 

A shp, and both horse and rider would roll to a 

hideous fate. 
But Sir Rupert, with set white features, rode to 

the headland straight. 
They heard him now, and the woman rose from 

her knees and moaned. 
And the man gave a sudden shudder and opened 

his eyes and groaned. 
Sir Rupert reined up so fiercely that the mare on 

the precipice reared. 
And the woman sprang back with horror, in the 

jaws of the death she feared. 
For a moment she seemed to totter, and then 

with a piercing cry 
Went over that awful headland that seems to 

touch the sky. 

For a second no sound was uttered, only the 
billows roared, 



While up from its nest a sea-gull, startled and 

shrieking, soared; 
Then, shouting for help. Sir Rupert clutched at 

the snow-clad turf, 
And glanced with a look of horror down at the 

boiling surf. 
And as he lay there peering, right at the farthest^ 

edge, 
Something his eyes detected — a. heap on a narrow 

ledge; 
It was thirty feet between them, but he knew 

'twas his wretched wife, 
And he vowed, though his own paid forfeit, he 

would save her guilty life. 

He could see there were tiny juttings where his 

foot might find a hold. 
And the man he had quite forgotten was worth 

his weight in gold. 
The booby was bruised and shaken, and fancied 

that he should die. 
But Sir Rupert bade him help him, or he'd shoot 

him by-and-by; 
Then the white-faced coward whimpered and 

lifted his jeweled hands. 
And Sir Rupert set him tearing his mantel in 

narrow bands. 
Then the strips were twined together and tied 

to a rough stone seat. 
And over went brave Sir Rupert, clinging with 

hands and feet. 

The waves in their winter fury shrieked for a 

human life, 
But down and down crept Rupert till he swung 

by his senseless wife, 
Stooping, he clasped her firmly, one hand on 

the doubtful rope, 
Pressed his lips on her marble forehead, and 

whispered her, ' ' Darling — hope ! ' ' 
Then breathing a prayer to heaven to save them 

both that night. 
He toiled with his heavy burden up the face of 

the frowning height. 
A fall of the soft red sandstone, a slip of his 

bleeding hand, 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



47 



JUad their bodies had lain together, crushed on 
the cruel strand. 

Safe! safe at last on the summit! safe on the 

firai hard road ! 
There where the moonbeams glittered, he glanced 

at his senseless load. 
Her face was bruised and battered, and the warm 

blood welled and gushed ; 
, And he saw that his wife was injured, and her 

tender bones were crushed. 
No trace of the lady's gaHant; he'd limped to a 

horse and flown : 
Sir Rupert and ^^ Polly Peachum" were there on 

the heights alone. 
He leaped on the gallant hunter; took his wife 

in his brawny arms. 
And galloped across the country to one of his 

tenants' farms. 

For six long months my lady hovered 'twixt 

death and life — 
'Twas a surgeon who came from London that 

saved Sir Rupert's wife— 
And when she was out of danger it was known 

she was marked and maimed, 
A battered, misshapen cripple, distorted and 

scarred and lamed. 



But Sir Rupert clung closer to tier; tiiey traveled 

from place to place. 
And he never winced or shuddered at the sight 

of her injured face. 
It was he who carried the cripple, who nursed 

her with tenderest care : 
And never in knightly story such gallant had 

lady fair. 

For many a year she lingered — 'twas up at the 

Hall she died. 
And here in the village churchyard they're sleep- 
ing side by side 
She died in his arms confessing the worth of his 

noble love. 
And in less than a year he sought her in the 

mansions of God above. 
There stands the great bluff headland — there 

swells the sea below — 
And the story I've told you happened nigh a 

hundred years ago. 
Yet there isn't a soul that visits those towering 

crags of red, 
But thinks of the love and daring that hallowed 

"Sir Rupert's Head." 

George R Sims. 



ONE TOUCH OF NATURE. 



THE LOVE OF MOTHER THE SAME IN ANY LANGUAGE. 



WE were at a railroad junction one night 
last week waiting a few hours for a 
train, in the waiting-room, in the only 
rocking chair, trying to talk a brown-eyed boy 
to sleep, who talks a good deal, when he wants 
to keep awake. Presently a freight train arrived, 
and a beautiful little woman came in, escorted 
by a great big German, and they talked in 
German, he giving her evidently, lots of infor- 
mation about the route she was going, and 
telling her about her tickets and her baggage 
check, and occassionally patting her on the arm. 
At first our United States baby, who did not 
understand German, was tickled to hear them 
talk, and he '^ snickered" at the peculiar sound 



of the language that was being spoken. The 
great big man put his hand upon the old lady's 
cheek, and said something encouraging, and a 
great big tear came to her eye, and she looked 
as happy as a queen. The little brown eyes of 
the boy opened pretty big, and his face sobered 
down from its laugh, and he said: *'Papa, is it 
his mother?" 

We knew it was, but how should a four-year- 
old sleepy baby, that couldn't understand Germair, 
tell that the lady was the big man's mother, and 
we asked him how he knew, and he said : * ' O, 
the big man was so kind to her. ' ' The big man 
bustled out, we gave the rocking chair to the 
little old mother, and presently the man came in 



48 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



with the baggageman, and to him he spoke 
English. 

He said: **This is my mother, and she does 
not speak English. She is going to Iowa, and I 
have ^ot to go back on the next train, but I want 
you to attend to her baggage, and see her on the 
right car, the rear car, with a good seat near the 
center, and tell the conductor she is my mother, 
and here's a dollar for you, and I will do as 
much for your mother sometime. ' ' 

The baggageman grasped the dollar with one 
hand, grasped the big man's hand with the other, 
and looked at the little German with an expres- 
sion that showed that he had a mother too, and 
we almost knew the old lady was well treatedc 
Then we put the sleeping mind-reader on a bench 
and went out on the platform and got acquainted 



with the big German, and he talked of horse 
trading, buying and selling, and everything that 
showed he was a live business man, ready for any 
speculation, from buying a yearling colt to a 
crop of hops or barley, and that his life was a 
very busy one and at times full of hard work, 
disappointment and hard roads, but with all his 
hurry and excitement, he was kind to his mother, 
and we loved him just a little, and when after a 
few minutes talk about business he said: "You 
must excuse me. I must go in the depot and see 
if my mother wants anything," we felt like 
taking his fat red hand and kissing it. O, the 
love of a mother is the same in any language, 
and it is good in all languages. The world 
would be poor without it. 

R. J. BURDETTE. 



LITTLE MAQ'5 VICTORY. 



WAS a hovel all wretched, forlorn and 
poor. 

With crumbling eaves and a hingeless door. 
And windows where pitiless midnight rains 
Beat fiercely in through the broken panes. 
And tottering chimneys, and moss-grown roof. 
From the heart of the city far aloof. 
Where Nanny, a hideous, wrinkled hag. 
Dwelt with her grandchild, "Little Mag.** 

The neighbors called old Nanny a witch. 

The story went that she'd once been rich — 

Aye, rich as any lady in town — 

But trouble had come and dragged her down 

And down ; then sickness, and want, and age 

Had filled the rest of her life's sad page. 

And driven her into the slums to hide 

Her shame and misery till she died. 

The boys, as she hobbled along the street, 

Her coming with yells and hoots would greet; 

E'en grown folks dreaded old Nan so much 

That they'd shun, in passing, her very touch. 

And a mocking word or glance would send. 

Poor little Mag was her only friend: 
Faithful and true was the child, indeed. 



What did she ever care or heed 

For those cruel words, and those looks of scorn? 

In patient silence they all were borne; 

But she prayed that God would hasten the day 

That would take her sorrow and care away. 

Alas ! that day — that longed-for boon. 
That ending of sorrow — came all too soon. 
For there came a day when a ruffian crowd, 
With stones, and bludgeons, and hootings loud, 
Surrounded old Nanny's hovel door. 
Led on by a drunken brute, who swore. 
In blasphemous oaths, and in language wild. 
She had stolen a necklace from off his child. 



Crouched in a corner, dumb with fear. 
The old hag sat, with her grandchild near, 
As the furious mob of boys and men. 
Yelling, entered her dingy den. 
*'Kill her! " shouted the brutal pack. 
''Cowards!" screamed Little Mag. "Stai. 

back!" 
As she placed her fragile form before 
Her poor old grandmother, on the floor, 
And clasped her about the neck, and pressed 



\' 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



49 



The thin gray hairs to her childish breast. 

'* Cowards!" she said. "Now, do your worst. 

If either must die, let me die first! " 

Cowed and abashed, the crowd stood still, 
Awed by that child's unaided will; 
One by one, in silence and shame. 



They all stole out by the way they came, 

Till the fair young child and the withered crcme 

Were left once more in that room — ^alone. 

But stop! What is it the child alarms? 
Old Nan lies dead in her grandchild^ s arms: 
George L. Catlir 



REMEMBER, BOYS MAKE MEN. 



W 



HEN you see a ragged urchin 
Standing wistful in the street, 

With torn hat and kneeless trousers. 

Dirty face and bare red feet.* 
Pass not by the child unheeding, 

Smile upon him. Mark me, when 
He's grown he'll not forget it. 

For, remember, boys make men. 

When the buoyant youthful spirits 

Overflow in boyish freak. 
Chide your child in gentle accents, 

Do not in your anger speak ; 
You must sow in youthful bosoms 

Seeds of tender mercies ; then 
Plants will grow and bear good fruitage, 

When tiie erring boys are men. 



Have you never seen a grandsire, 

With his eyes aglow with joy, , 

Bring to mind some act of kindness 

Something said to him a boy? 
Or relate some slight or coldness. 

With a brow all clouded, when 
He said they were too thoughtless 

To remember boys make men ? 

Let us try to add some pleasures 

To the life of every boy. 
For each child needs tender interest 

In its sorrows and its joy; 
Call your boys home by your brightness 

They'll avoid a gloomy den. 
And seek for comfort elsewhere — • 

And remember, boys make men. 



STICK TO YOUR BUSH, 



WHEN I was but a tiny boy. 
And went to a village school, 
I thought myself, as boys will think, 
That I was no man's fool. 
But in the village there was one 
Who was the fool of all ; 
Poor fellow, he was Crazy Ben, 
A man both lithe and tall. 



But Ben was gaunt and gray, a fool. 

The village Solons cried ; 
He'd been so, thus they told the tale. 

E'er since his true love died. 
But Ben was kind, I not afraid, 

And Ben became my chum ; 
E'en though at times poor Ben took freaks, 

His idiot tongue was dumb. 



One day that tongue unloosed a truth 

That made me then to wince. 
And though it came from idiot lips. 

Has never left me since. 
That day we berrying had gone, 

And Ben had gone along. 
And, boy-like, I from bush to bush 

Had wandered with the throng. 

Ben stuck, in silence, to one spot, 

And whispered this to me : 
'^Sticli to your bush if you of fruit 

A basketful would see." 
And so I did, and proved the fact. 

While through the world we push. 
There's nothing better to be learned 

Than this — ** Stick to your bush.*' 

J. W. Watson. 



50 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS, 



SEARCHING FOR THE SLAIN. 



OLD the lantern aside, and shudder not so ; 

There's more blood to see than this stain 
on the snow ; 
There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there, 
And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked 

hair. 
Did you think, when we came, you and I, out 

to-night 
To search for our dead, yon would be a fair 

sight ? 

You're his wife ; you love him — you think so ; 

and I 
Am only his mother ; my boy shall not lie 
In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear 
His form to a grave that mine own may soon share. 
So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth. 
While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth. 

You will go ! then no fain tings ! Give me the light, 
And follow my footsteps, — my heart will lead right. 
Ah, God) what is here? a great heap of the slain. 
All mangled and gory ! — what horrible pain 
These beings have died in ! Dear mothers, ye 

weep, 
Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep! 

More ! more ! Ah ! I thought I could never- 
more know 
Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below. 
Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell 
How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell. 
Did they think I cared then to see officers stand 
Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand ? 

Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor 

fright. 
That your red hands turn over toward this dim 

light 
These dead men that stare so ? Ah, if you had 

kept 
Your senses this morning ere his comrades had 

left. 
You had heard that his place was worst of them 

all,— 



Not mid the stragglers, — ^where he fought be 
would fall. 

There's the moon thro' the clouds : O Christ» j 

what a scene ! 
Dost thou from thy heavens o'er such visions lean, 
And still call this cursed world a footstool of thine? 
Hark, a groan ! there another, — ^here in this line 
Piled close on each other ! Ah, nere is the flag, 
Tom, dripping with gore ; — ^bah ! they died for 

this rag. 

Here's the voice that we seek : poor soul, do not 

start ; 
We're women, not ghosts. What a gash o'er 

the heart ! 
Is there aught we can do ? A message to give 
To any beloved one ? I swear, if I live, 
To take it for sake of the words my boy said, 
**Home," '* mother," ^^wife," ere he reeled 

down 'mong the dead. 

But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood ? 
Speak, speak, man, or point ; 'twas the Ninth. 

Oh, the blood 
Is choking his voice ! What a look of despair ! 
There, lean on my knee, while I put back the hair 
From eyes so fast glazing. Oh, my darling, my 

own, 
My hands were both idle when you died alone. 

He's dying — ^he's dead ! Close his lids, let us go. 
God's peace on his soul ! If we only could know 
Where our own dear one lies ! — my soul has turned 

sick : 
Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here so 

thick ? 
I cannot ! I cannot ! How eager you are ! 
One might think you were nursed on the red lap 

of War. 

He's not here, — and not here. What wild hopes 

flash through 
My thoughts, as foot-deep I stand in this diead 

dew, 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



51 



And cast up a prayer to the blue quiet sky ! 
W-q.s it you, girl, that shrieked ? Ah ! what face 

doth lie 
Upturned toward me there, so rigid and white ? 
O God, my brain reels ! 'Tis a dream. My 

old sight 

Is dimmed with these horrors. My son ! oh my 

son ! 
Would I had died for thee, my own, only one ! 
There, lift off your arms ; let him come to the 

breast 
Where first he was lulled, with my soul's hymn, 

to rest. 
Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss 
As mine to his baby-touch ; was it for this ? 

He was yours, too ; he loved you ? Yes, yes, 

you're right. ■ 
Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to-night. 
Don't moan so, dear child ; you're young, and 

your years 



May still hold fair hopes; but the old die of teaxs. 
Yes, take him again ; — ah ! don't lay your face 

there ; 
See, the blood from his wound has stained your 

loose hair. 

How quiet you are ! Has she fainted? — her cheek 
Is cold as his own. Say a word to me, — ^speak ! 
Am I crazed? Is she dead? Has her heart 

broke first ? 
Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst. 
I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these dead; 
Those corpses are stirring ; God help my poor 

head! 

I'll sit by my children until the men come 
To bury the others, and then we'll go home. 
Why, the slain are all dancing ! Dearest, don't 

move. 
Keep away from my boy ; he's guarded by love. 
Lullaby, lullaby ; sleep, sweet darling, sleep ! 
God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep. 



THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK. 



(T ' M nine years old ! an' you can't guess how 
^ much I weigh, I bet ! 

Last birthday I weighed thirty-three ! An' 

I weigh thirty yet ! 
I'm awful little for my size — I m purt' high 

Httler an' 
Some babies is ! — ^an' neighbors all calls me 

''The Little Man!" 
An' Doc one time he laughed and said: ''I 

'spect, first thing you know. 
You'll have a little spike-tail coat an' travel 

with a show ! ' ' 
An' nen I laughed — till I looked round an' 

Aunty was a cry in' — 
Sometimes she acts like that, 'cause I got 

''curv'ture of the spine ! " 

I set — ^while aunty's washing — on my little long- 
leg stool. 

An' watch the little boys and girls a-skippin* by 
to school ; 



An' I peck on the winder an' holler out an* 

say: 
*'Who wants to fight the little man 'at dares 

you all to-day ? ' ' 
An' nen the boys climbs on the fence, an' little 

girls peeks through, 
An' they all says: *' 'Cause you're so big, you 

think we're 'feared o' you?" 
An' nen they yell, and shake their fist at me, 

like I shake mine — 
They're thist in fun, you know, 'cause I got 

''curv'ture of the spine ! " 

At evening, when the ironin's done, an' Aunty's 

fixed the fire. 
An' filled an' lit the lamp, and' trimmed the 

wick an' turned it higher. 
An' fetched the wood all in fer • night, an' 

locked the kitchen door. 
An* stuffed the ole crack where the wind blows 

in up through the floor — 



52 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



She sets the kittle on the coals, an* biles an* 

makes the tea, 
An' fries the liver an' mush, an' cooks a egg fer 

me; 
An' sometimes — when I cough so hard — ^her 

elderberry wme 
Don't go so bad fer little boys with **curv'ture 

of the spine. ' ' 

But Aunty's all so childish like, on my account, 

you see, 
I'm 'most afeared she'll be took down — an' 

'at's what bothers me — 



'Cause ef my good ole Aunty ever would git sick 

an' die, 
I don't know what she'd do in Heaven — till I 

come, by an' by, 
For she's so ust to all my ways, an' everything, 

you know, 
An' no one there like me, to nurse, an' worry 

over so — 
'Cause all the little childrens there's so straight 

an' strong an' fine, 
They's nary angel 'bout the place with '^curv'- 

ture of the spine." 

James Whitcomb Riley. 



THE BURNING PRAIRIE. 



HE prairie stretched as smooth as a floor, 

As far as the eye could see. 
And the settler sat at his cabin door, 
With his little girl on his knee ; 
Striving her letters to repeat, 
A.nd pulling her apron over her feet. 

His face was wrinkled but not old, 

For he bore an upright form. 
And his shirt sleeves back to the elbow rolled. 

They showed a brawny arm. 
And near in the grass with toes upturned. 
Was a pair of old shoes, cracked and burned. 

* . 

A dog with his head betwixt his paws. 

Lay lazily dozing near, 
Mow and then snapping his tar black jaws 

At the fly that buzzed in his ear ; 
And near was the cow-pen, made of rails. 
And a bench that held two milking pails. 

In the open door an ox-yoke lay. 

The mother's odd redoubt. 
To keep the little one, at her play 

On the floor, from falling out ; 
While she swept the hearth with a turkey wing, 
■ And filled her tea-kettle at the spring. 

The little girl on her father's knee. 
With eyes so bright and blue. 



From A, B, C, to X, Y, Z, 

Had said her lesson through ; 
When a wind came over the prairie land. 
And caught the primer out of her hand. 

The watch dog whined, the cattle lowed 

And tossed their horns about. 
The air grew gray as if it snowed, 

"There will be a storm, no doubt," 
So to himself the sfettler said ; 
*'But, father, why is the sky so red?" 

The little girl slid ofl" his knee. 

And all of a tremble stood ; 
"Good wife," he cried, "come out and see, 

The skies are as red as blood. ' ' 
"God save us ! " cried the settler's wife, 
"The prairie's a fire, we must run for life ! " 

She caught the baby up, "Come, 

Are you mad? to your heels, my man;" 

He followed, terror-stricken, dumb. 
And so they ran and ran. 

Close upon them was the snort and swing 

Of buffaloes madly galloping. 

The wild wind, like a sower, sows 

The ground with sparkles red; 
And the flapping wings of the bats and crows, 
. And the ashes overhead. 




^GOOPHESS 



Goodness ewciousiiTi^woHDMus 



lT liTi 



And ClO$l IKE W/10l£ FimmkHCl 






HOW PADEREWSKI PUAYS THE FIANO 








y^/S Ujr/Ofjb /ilfiJ^T TO YOU 4^:> 
__ d£^rs our in love -^^^ 



GENERAL WHEELER AT SANTIAGO 



1 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



53 



And tne bellowing deer, and the hissing snake, 
What a swirl of terrible sounds they make. 

No gleam of the river water yet, 

And the flames leap on and on, 
A crash and a fiercer whirl and jet. 

And the settler's house is gone. 
The air grows hot ; ''This fluttering curl 
Would bum like flax, ' ' said the little girl. 

And as the smoke against her drifts. 
And the lizard slips close by her. 



She tells how the little cow uplifts 
Her speckled face from the fire ; 
For she cannot be hindered from looking back 
At the fiery dragon on their track. 

They hear the crackling grass and sedge, 

The flames as they whir and rave, 
On, on ! they are close to the water's edge,— 

They are breast-deep in the wave ; 
And lifting their little one high o'er the tide, 

"We are saved, thank God, we are saved ! " 
they cried. Alice Gary. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



WHAT is to be thought of her? What is 
to be thought of the poor shepherd- 
girl from the hills and forests of Lor- 
raine, that, like the Hebrew shepherd-boy from 
the hills and forests of Judea, rose suddenly out 
of the quiet, out of the safety, out of the relig- 
ious inspiration, rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, 
to a station in the van of armies, and to the 
more perilous station at the right hand of kings ? 
The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mis- 
sion by an act^ by a victorious act, such as no 
man could deny. But so did the girl of Lor- 
raine, if we read her story as it was read by 
those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies bore 
witness to the boy as no pretender: but so they 
did to the gentle girl. Judged by the voices of 
all who saw them from a station of good-will, 
both were found true and loyal to any promises 
involved in their first acts. Enemies it was 
that made the diflerence between their subse- 
quent fortunes. 

The boy rose, — to a splendor and a noonday 
prosperity, both personal and public, that rang 
through the records of the people, and became 
a by-word amongst his posterity for a thousand 
years, until the sceptre was departing from Judah. 
.The poor, forsaken girl, on the contrary, drank 
not herself from that cup of rest which she had 
secured for France. She never sang together 
with the songs that rose in her native Domremy, 
as echoes to the departing steps of invaders. She 



mingled not in the festal dances of Vancouleurs, 
which celebrated in rapture the redemption of 
France. No ? for her voice was then silent. No ! 
for her feet were dust. 

Pure, innocent, noble hearted girl ! whom 
from earliest youth, ever I believed in as full of 
truth and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the 
strongest pledges for thy side, that never once- ~ 
no, not for a moment of weakness — didst thou 
revel in the vision of coronets and honor from 
man. Coronets for thee? Oh, no ! Honors, 
if they come when all is over, are for those that 
share thy blood. Daughter of Domremy, when 
the gratitude of thy king shall awaken thou wilt 
be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her, 
king of France, but she will not hear thee? 
Cite her by thy apparitors to come and receive a 
robe of honor, but she will be found contuma- 
cious. When the thunders of universal France, 
as even yet may happen, shall proclaim the 
grandeur of the poor shepherd-girl that gave up 
all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd-girl, 
will have been deaf for five centuries. 

To suffer and to do, that was thy portion in 
this life : to do — never for thyself, always for 
others ; to suffer — never in the persons of gen- 
erous champions, always in thy own ; that was 
thy destiny, and not for a moment was it hidden 
from thyself. ' ' Life, ' ' thou saidst, ' ' is short, and 
the sleep which is in the grave is long. Let me 
use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those 



5i 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



heavenly dreams destined to comfort the sleep 
which is so long. ' ' 

Pure from every suspicion of even a visionary 
self-interest, even as she was pure in senses more 
obvious, never once did this holy child, as re- 
garded herself, relax from her belief in the dark- 
ness that was traveling to meet her. She might 
not prefigure the very manner of her death ; she 
saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of 
the fiery scafibld, the spectators without end, on 
every road, pouring in.'^o Rouen as to a corona- 
tion, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, 
the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye that 
lurked but here and there until nature and im- 
perishable truth broke loose from artificial 
restraints ; these might not be apparant through 
the mists of the hurrying future, but the voice 



that called her to death, ^Aat she heard foj* 
ever. 

Great was the throne of France even in those 
days, and great was he that sat upon it ; but 
well Joan knew that not the throne, nor he that 
sat upon it, was for /ler; but, on the contrary, 
that, she was for fkem: not she by them, but 
they by her, should rise from the dust. Gor-)' 
geous were the lilies of France, and for centuries 
had the privilege to spread their beauty over land 
and sea, until, in another century, the wrath of 
God and man combined to wither them; but 
well Joan knew, early at Domremy she had read 
that bitter truth, that the lilies of France would 
decorate no garland for /ler. Flower nor bud, 
bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for her. 

Thomas DeQuincey. 



KIT CARSON'S RIDE. 



fUN ? Now you bet you ; I rather guess so ? 
But he's blind as a badger. Whoa, Pache, 
boy, whoa. 
No, you wouldn't think so to look at his eyes. 
But he is badger blind, and it happened this wise : 

We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels 
Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride. 
" Forty full miles if a foot > to ride, 
Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils 
Of red Camanches are hot on the track 
When once they strike it. Let the sun go down 
Soon, very soon," muttered bearded old Revels, 
As he peered at the sun lying low on his back, 
Holding fast to his lasso ; then he jerked at his 

steed, 
And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around, 
And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the 

ground — 
Then again to his feet and to me, to my bride. 
While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud. 
His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud, 
And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a 

reed — 
" Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed. 
And speed, if ever for life you would speed j 



And ride for your lives, for your lives you must 

ride, 
For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire ; 
And feet of wild horses hard flying before, 
I hear like a sea breaking high on the shore ; 
While the bufl"alo come like the surge of the sea, 
Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three 
As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire.** 

We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein, 
Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them 

over again. 
And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer, 
Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold, 
Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with golc^ 
And gold-mounted Colt's, true companions for 

years ; 
Cast the silken seripes to the wind in a breath. 
And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the 

horse. 
As bare as when born, as when new from the hand 
Of God, without word, or one word of command. 
Turned head to the Brazos in a red race with death, 
Turned head to the Brazos with a breath in the hair 
Blowinghot from a king leaving death in his course; 
Turned head to the Brazos with a sound In the air 



A a 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



55 



Like the rush of an army, and a flash in the eye 
Of a red wall of fire reaching up to the sky, 
Stretching fierce in pursuit of a black rolling sea 
Rushing fast upon us as the wind sweeping free 
And afar from the desert, blew hollow and hoarse. 

Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall. 
Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low call 
Of love-note or courage, but on o'er the plain 
So steady and still, leaning low to the mane. 
With the heel to the flank and the hand to therein. 
Rode we on, rode we three, rode we nose and gray 

nose, 
Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviged 

wind blows. 
Yet we broke not a whisper, we breathed not a 

prayer, 
There was work to be done, there was death in 

the air, 
And the chance was as one to a thousand for all. 

Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustang 
Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the arid 

earth rang, 
And the foam from the flank and the croup and 

the neck 
Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven 

deck. 
Twenty miles ! thirty miles ! — a, dim distant 

speck — 
Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos in sight, 
And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight. 
I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right, 
But Revels was gone ; I glanced by my shoulder 
And saw his horse stagger ; I saw his head drooping 
^ Hard on his breast, and his naked breast stooping 
Low down to the mane as so swifter and bolder 
Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. 

To right and to left the black buffalo came, 

A terrible surf on a red sea of flame 

Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching 

higher; 
And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, 
The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full 
Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire 



Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud 
And unearthly, and up through its lowering cloud 
Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire, 
While his keen crooked horns through the storm 

of his mane 
Like black lances lifted and lifted again ; 
And I looked but this once, for the fire licked 

through, I 

And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two. 

I looked to my left, then, and nose, neck, and 

shoulder 
Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs; 
And up through the black blowing vail of her 

hair 
Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes 
With a longing and love, yet a look of despair. 
And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her. 
And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. 
Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell 
To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's swell 
Did subside and recede and the nerves fall as 

dead. 

Then she saw sturdy Pache still lorded his head. 
With a look of delight, for this Pache, you see. 
Was her father's, and once at the South Sante Fe 
Had won a whole herd, sweeping everything down 
In a race where the world came to run for the 

crown ; 
And so when I won the true heart of my bride — - 
My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child, 
And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe — 
She brought me this steed to the border the night 
She met Revels and me in her perilous flight 
From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos 

side ; 
And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled. 
As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride 
The fleet-footed Pache, so if kin should pursue 
I should surely escape without other ado 
Than to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos 

side. 
And await her, and wait till the next hollow moon 
Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and 

soon 



66 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



And swift she would join me, and all would be 

well 
Without bloodshed or word. And now, as she 

fell 
From the front, and went down in the ocean of 

fire, 
The last that I saw was a look of delight 
That I should escape — a love — a. desire — 
Yet never a word, not a look of appeal. 
Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or 

stay heel 
One instant for her in my terrible flight. 

Then the rushing of fire around me and under, 
And the howling of beasts and a sound as of 

thunder — 
Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and 

Over, 
As the passionate flame reached around them and 

wove her 
Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died — 
Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan, 
As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone. 
And into the Brazos — I rode all alone — 
All alone, save only a horse long-limbed. 



And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. 
Then, just as the terrible sea came in. 
And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide, 
Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream 

brimmed 
In eddies, we struck on the opposite side. 

Sell Pache, — blind Pache? Now, mister, look 

here. 
You have slept in my tent and partook of my 

cheer 
Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier, 
For the ways they were rough and Camanches 

were near ; 
But you'd better pack up, sir ! that tent is too 

small 
For us two after this ! Has an old mountaineer, 
Do you bookmen believe, got no tum-tum at all ? 
Sell Pache ? You buy him ! A bag full of gold ! 
You show him ! Tell of him the tale I have told ! 
Why, he bore me through fire, and is blind, and 

is old ! 
Now pack up your papers and get up and spin. 
And never look back. Blast you and your tin ! 

Joaquin Miller. 



LOTTIE DOUGHERTY. 



U 




lED, Lottie Dougherty," to-day 

Tue paper said, ^'Millville, N. J.* 
Though hers a humble name 
She won a martyr's fame. 
Will live as years shall roll away. 

All day she sat in humble toil 
And touched the wires with magic coil, 
And from her fingers quick 
The flashes click ! click ! click ! 
Told tales of pleasure or of spoil. 

"On time" or ''late" each train she knew. 
And told the moment it was due ; 

And thus she served the throng 

That whirled each day along. 
Known only by a loving few. 



One eve a storm came crashing down 
And whirled in frenzy through the town > 

And in its onward glee 

It rent an ancient tree 
That fell before its awful frown. 



''Across the track ! " the girl they told, 
It lay with broken trunk and old ; 
The ' ' Express ' ' was nearly due, • 
It flashed her quick brain through, 
And then her heart grew faint and cold. 

On, on it came with heart of fire. 
The steed whose muscles never tire ; 
And maid and matron sat 
And talked of this and that, 
Or dreamed o^ friends with fond desire. 



I 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



67 



Men lounged within the palace car, 
And laughed to see the winds at war ; 

What if the surging rain 

Had flooded vale and plain, 
They dreamed no danger near or far. 

But ah, that timid girl, her soul 
Springs from its fear beyond control', 

A hundred lives are hers ; 

Her bosom heaves and stirs ; 
Strange fears across her vision roll. 

She seizes quick the signal light, 
And rushes like a fairy sprite 

Out through the storm and dark ; 

She swings the ' ' red light. ' ' Hark I 
The whistle shrieks the wild affright. 

Down brakes ! reverse the engine wheels ! 

Cold pallor o'er each visage steals; 
They curb the iron steed, 
And with its slackening speed 

A calm relief each bosom feels. 

Not quite it halts ; it strikes a limb 
And thrusts it through the shadows dim 
Against her slender form. 
Who braves the night and storm 
To shut the jaws of death so grim. 

She falls, a bruised and bleeding one; 
And sad and tearful eyes look on 
To see her shattered frame ; 



They asked the brave girl's name. 
Who risked her all for them unknown. 

And grateful men and women fair 
A present offer then and there ; 

And to her hand they press 

The gift in her distress 
To soothe her in her pain and care. 

But no ', for her reward alone 

Is love's own work and duty done; 

With this alone content. 

She yieldeth not consent ; 
A joy to selfish souls unknown. 

They bore her home that evening horn*, 
To wither like a summer flower, 

Until, in silent rest, 

Soft folded on her breast. 
Her brave white hands forgot their power,— 

Brave hands that swung the signal light 
And stopped the death-march of that night ; 

What tales were never told, 

What wreck of life and gold 
Her courage hid from human sight .' 

Write high those humble deeds of love ; 
These lowly heroes, how they move 

Along our paths unseen. 

To shine at length serene 
On memory's greener heights above. 

DwiGHT Williams* 



NOLA KOZMO. 



^HERE stood a young form in the mild 

Dim twilight of the morning hour, 
When dawn just opes her lips of light 
To pour on earth its honeyed shower. 
Day's beautiful harbinger as yet 

Was lingering in the eastern sky, 
Looking its last ere it should set. 

Like some love-fraught but earth-dim eye : 
The trees waved stilly in the wind. 
And wild birds sang in their green homes enshrined. 



Calmly that youthful form stood there, 

A mantle o'er his shoulders flung. 
His dark plumes, stirred by the soft air, 

O'er his bent? forehead drooping hung. 
Calmly he stood, alone, alone. 

Wrapped in his thoughts of grief or crime j 
His long dark tresses, gently blown. 

Waved round his face their lustrous prime. 
In front, with muskets glancing keen, 
Wild men stood waiting in the twilight sheen. 



58 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



" Prisoner, commend thy soul to heaven ! " 

A stern voice cried from out the band ; 
And, at the word, Hke lightning riven. 

The muskets glanced in each broad hand. 
An upward trembling of his gaze, 

A motion of those small round lips, 
A flutter of those dark eyes' rays. 

Like stars beneath a cloud's eclipse. 
That pale sad brow one moment bared. 
The prisoner bowed his head and stood prepared. 

There was a pause, — a deadly pause : 

The still soft wind crept murmuring past, 
Each heart a fuller breathing draws, 

The mantle's folds aside are cast. 
And, as the bosom gleams to view, 

Thunders the red throat of the giin. 
Ah ! too well aimed the missile flew. 

He sank like flowers at set of sun. 
They raised him, life's streams gushing warm. 
And saw — O faith and love !— a woman's form. 

" I thank thee. Heaven," her faint lips spake. 
The life blood o'er them bubbhng clear, 

*' He, he is safe ! — for him will wake 
No father's sigh, no mother's tear." 

That soft, large eye grew fixed and dull, 
That soft white forehead cold and dim, 



Those locks, so rich and beautiful. 

Dabbled in gore, around her swim. 
A long, deep sigh — back sank her head ; 
The faithful and the beautiful was dead. 

* * Away ! " a wild voice cried behind. 

And, backward dashed, the crowd retired, 
A form reeled on with hurry blind. 

His eyes like fagots newly fired. 
'' Nola," he cried, ^'how, how is this ? 

Ah, me ! earth drinks her heart's dear rain f *' 
Down dropped he that cold clay to kiss. 

And question those white lips in vain. 
''Dumb ! — cold ! — no fire in those orbs be. 
Pale — pale, my love ! and thus — O wretch, foi 
me!" 

Then yelled he to the wild train round, 

''What! stand ye idly loitering still? 
Behold your true prey, free, unbound, 

Stands mocking at your murderous will. 
You know me not ? On battle day 

This arm you knew, and feared it well — 
Cowards " — a bullet winged its way — 

He reeled and by the maiden fell : 
They laid them both in one red grave, 
And summer flowers o'er their slumbers wave. 

Baine. 



THE WIDOW'S LIGHT. 

A BALLAD OF THE SANDS. 



©VER the ribs of the salt sea sand. 
Far, far out from the sheltered land, 
Feet uncovered and free of limb. 
Danced she into the sea-mist dim ; 
Angela Rainor, the widow's light. 
The lone, bright star in a heavy night. 

Over the sands, with a wild, sweet song, 
Light as a beach-bird, she skimmed along. 
Seeking for shells that were left behind 
When the tide went out ; and in hope to find 
Scallops and crabs, and some razor-fish, 
To make for her mother a savory dish. 



"I'm a long way out," said the little maid; 
"But then I'm never the least afraid ; 
At any time I can hurry back, 
I can find the shore by my own plain track. 
Oh ! but 'tis nice to be out by the sea ! 
A mermaid how I would love to be ; 
To dart, with the fishes, up and down, 
To frolic and caper, but never drown." 

"Hillo ! small messmate," called Uncle [im. 
The whaler, just from a glorious swim 
Out by the breakers not far away, 
*'What luck, Sand Piper, in fishing to-d*y?" 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



59 



"Basket brimful, sir, and there it stands," 
She pointed back o'er the misty sands; 
Dimly he saw it, safe and high, 
On a lofty rock that was always dry 

" Good little messmate. But don't stay long, 
The tide will be turning and setting in strong. 
I heard the sea-witches out there in the spray 
Tell how they were brewing a tough storm to- 
day." 

*'I'm going soon, sir." Her brown hand she 

kissed 
With the grace of a princess, and vanished in 

mist. 
He heard in the waters the splash of her feet. 
And as he went shoreward her voice, faintly 

sweet, 
Came back on the wind that blew inland the 

foam, 
''Yes, yes, I am going, I'm soon going home. 
But not just this minute, ' ' thus low to herself, 
Playing, ''catch" with the waves, sang the 

beautiful elf. 
"Go home, Captain Jim, but be sure you don't 

tell 
That you found me so near where the loud 

breakers swell." 

The tiny waves rolled as in play o'er her feet. 
And upward they leaped as if trying to meet 
The touch of her hand. Then they broke on 

the strand, 
Each one just a little way nearer the land. 
How happy the child ! how intent on her play ! 
Till a sudden rough wave dashed her over with 

spray. 

Then startled, she listened. None reared on 

the shore 
That knows not too well what is meant by that 

roar. 
" I must run for my basket and hurry to land." 
Oh ! where was the rock ? Where the tracks in 

the sand ? 



Fast over her gathered the mists and more. 
And louder and nearer that terrible roar ; 
And breakers were booming and bellowing near. 
And blinded by spray, she was fainting with 

fear. 
"Oh, mother!" she cried in her anguish and 

pain, 
" My mother ! I never shall see you again, 
My basket, all filled for your sake, will be found ; 
But, O my dear mother, your child will be 

drowned." 



Wide on the waves spread her long locks of 

gold,— 
To sad widow Rainor a treasure untold, — 
And the hungry salt billows that swayed her hair. 
Dashed foam on the lovely face lifted in prayer. 
As Angela, standing breast-high in the flood. 
Stretching out her small arms raised her cry unto 

God: 
" Mother says that you love me, Lord Jesus, O 

come 
And over the stormy waves carry me homa." 

Now brave Captain Jim, when he heard the 

waves roar,^ 
Crowded all sail, so he said, for the shore. 
To see if the moorings of gay " Susan Jane " 
Were able to stand the unusual strain. 
The gay Susan Jane was his joy and his pride, 
A beautiful yacht, and the captain's sole bride. 
"I think I will wait for Sand Piper," said he ; 
"A woman worth having I reckon she'll be. 
My eyes!" he said earnestly, "how she can 

sing ! 
I'm glad she's safe under her good mother's 

wing — 
God a* mercy !" he shouten in sudden affright. 
While chattered his teeth, and his brown face 

grew white, 
As something was flung by the waves at his feet. 
With seaweed and grass for its wet winding-sheet; 
With seaweed and grass in its long, clinging hair. 
It was cast at his feet as if left in his care. 
Great sobs from his breast told how grievous his 

pain, 



60 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



And tears down his sun-burned cheeks rushed 

like the rain. 
The sea-grass he brushed from the still form away, 
And tenderly wiped from the fair face the spray, 
"My poor little messmate," he chokingly said, 
** I thought you with mother, and here you lie 

dead.'* 



As Angela bearing, he turned from the snore, 
How clearly his heart heard her sweet voice once 

more, 
From far over the sea the glad strain seemed to 

come-— 
** Yes, yes, I am going, I'm soon going home 1 " 

Augusta Moore. 



THE RAINDROPS' RIDE. 



OME little drops of water, 
Whose home was in the sea. 

To go upon a journey, 
Once happened to agree. 

A cloud they had for carriage ; 

They drove a playful breeze ; 
And, over town and country. 

They rode along at ease. 



But oh, there v/ere so many ! 

At last, the carriage broke, 
And to the ground came tumbling, 

These frightened little folk. 



And through the moss and 
They were compelled to roam, 

Until a brooklet found them 
And carried them all home. 



MORAY AND HIS THIRTY. 

MARCH I313. 



ONG as the fair old City stands, the glory 
of the North ; 
Long as '* King Arthur's Seat ' * o*erlooks 
the flashing of the Forth ; 
I-ong as o'er lovely Edinbro' queens high her 

castled hold. 
Of Moray and his Thirty shall the gallant tale be 
told. 

St. Andrew's Cross was gleaming from many a 

taken wall, 
As Highland isle, and Lowland glen, rose to the 

Bruce' s call; 
But from Stirling and from Edinbro', in firm 

defiance still, 
The English Lion flaunted free, and told her 

Sovereign's will. 

Cold in his noble abbey, lay he whose sun had 

set 
In clouds of stormy presage, the great Plantage- 

net ; 
'Mid favorites and fooleries, the weakly sapling 

lost 



All that the mighty oak had won — ^won at such 
bitter cost. 

But still King Edward's standard from the Castlf 

floated gay. 
And still the rock impregnable held Bruce' s best 

at bay, 
To loyal threat and loyal strength, laughed frank 

defiance down. 
Where Moray's bafiled legions camped about the 

subject town. 

A soldier sought the warrior earl, whose ready 

ear and wit 
Caught every rumor as it flew, and took the 

heart from it ; 
*'I have scaled the rock full oft,'* he said, *' in 

boyish fears despite ; 
Who is there, that for Bruce' s sake, will try my 

path to-night?" 

** Oh, aye, the road is perilous, craves wary grasp 
and tread. 





ALAS, HOW LIGHT A CAUSE MAY MOVE 
DISSENSION BETWEEN HEARTS THAT LOVE 



"^^l^a 





"-..._^^^ .^pl^^». 





"Out swept the squadrons, fated three hundred. 
Into the battle-line steady and full;" 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



ei 



And once a sentinel look down, by Mary, we 

were sped ! 
But the moon is at her birth I wot, the clouds 

heap in the west. 
To dare and die — to dare and win — for Scotland, 

which were best ? ' * 

"Right art thou,*' fiery Moray said, and to his 

soldiers spoke, 
And, as they heard, an eager cry from every 

squadron broke ; 
Full many a stalwart trooper felt crossed hope 

was hard to bear, 
As Randolph chose his Thirty, from the host of 

heroes there. 

The moon hung dim and haloed abov^ the toss- 
ing Firth, 

The wind swept with a muffled moan across the 
frostbound earth ; 

And from the driving wrack of clouds the light 
gleamed faint and far. 

As, in black robes, the Thirty met round Moray's 
silver star. 

High up in Edinbro' Castle, secure the English 

slept ; 
Their dreary rounds the sentinels in careful order 

stepped j 



And creeping, struggling upward, nerves, sinews, 

all astrain, 
Clomb Randolph and his Thirty, their glorioui 

prize to gain. 

** Below there, ho ! I see you," a soldier cried 

in jest ; 
I trow the throbbing pulses froze in every warrior 

breast ; 
Yet, nor stir nor cry betokened their deadly peril, 

when 
The loosened crag came bounding down, 'mid 

Moray and his men. 

Then rose the cry of wild surprise, of desperate 

darkling fight. 
As, like ghosts ! the bold invaders sprung upon 

that guarded height ; 
Brief was the furious struggle, as, startled from 

their rest. 
Unarmed, amazed, the English met each fierce, 

unbidden guest. 

And when the lingering morning broke upon the 
Castle Rock, 

The ruddy Lion ramped no more, the Scottish 
breeze to mock ; 

And when King Robert to his feast bid the cap- 
tains of hir host, 

**To Moray and his Thirty," he pledged tke 
crowning toast. 



DEFENCE FROM THE CHARGE OF TYRANNY. 



'HEY call me a tyrant ! If I were so, they 
would fall at my feet: I should have 
gorged them with gold, assured them of 
Impunity to their crimes, and they would have 
worshipped me. Had I been so, the kings 
whom we have conquered would have been my 
most cordial supporters. It is by the aid of 
scoundrels you arrive at tyranny. Whither tend 
those who combat them ? To the tomb and im- 
mortality ! Who is the tyrannt that protects 
me ? What is the faction to which I belong ? It 
is yourselves ! What is the party which, since 
the commencement of the Revolution, has 



crushed all other factions — has annihilated so 
many specious traitors? It is yourselves ; it is 
the people ; it is the force of principles ! This 
is the party to which I am devoted, and against 
which crime is everywhere leagued. 

I am ready to lay down my life without regret. 
I have seen the past ; I foresee the future. What 
lover of his country would wish to live, when he 
can no longer succor oppressed innocence? 
^^^ly should he desire to remain in an order of 
things where intrigue eternally triumphs over 
truth — ^where justice is deemed an imposture — . 
where the vilest passions, the most ridiculous 



62 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



fears, fill etery hwart, instead of the sacred 
interests of humanity? Who can bear the pun- 
ishment of seeing the horrible succession of 
traitors, more or less skilful in concealing their 
hideous vices under the mask of virtue, and who 
will leave to posterity the difficult task of 
determining which was the most atrocious ? In 
contemplating the multitude of vices which the 
Revolution has let loose pell mell with the civic 
virtue^ I own I sometimes fear that I myself 
shall be sullied in the eyes of posterity by their 
calumnies. 

But I am consoled by the reflection that, if I 
have seen in history all the defenders of liberty 



overwhelmed by calumny, I have seen their 
oppressors die also. The good and the bad dis- 
appear alike from the earth ; but in very differ- 
ent conditions. No, Chaumette! '* Death is 
not an eternal sleep ! ' ' — Citizens, efface from 
the tombs that maxim, engraven by sacrilegious 
hands, which throws a funeral pall over nature, 
which discourages oppressed innocence : write 
rather, ** Death is the commencement of immor 
taUty ! " I leave to the oppressors of the people 
a terrible legacy, which well becomes the situa- 
tion in which I am placed ; it is the awful truth, 
"Thou Shalt die." 

Robespierre. 



A VALEDICTORY, 



^HE golden glow of a summer's day 

Rests over the verdant hills, 
And the sunlight falls with mellow ray 

On fields and laughing rills ; 
But ere its last beam fades away 

Beyond the mountain high. 
Our lips must bravely, sadly say 

The parting words, *' Good-bye.** 

Kind friends and parents gathered here, 

Our gratitude is yours 
For all your care and sympathy, 

Which changelessly endures. 
We'll try to use the present hours 

So they will bring no sigh. 
When to our happy days of school 

We say our last '* Good-bye." 



Dear teacher, we shall ne'er forget ■ 

The lessons you have taught : 
We trust the future may perfect 

The work your hands have wrought ; 
And may they bring good gifts to you. 

These years that swiftly fly. 
And may you kindly think of those 

Who bid you now ** Good-bye.*' 

"Good-bye ! " it shall not be farewell, — 

We hope again to meet ; 
But happy hours are ever short, 

And days of youth are fleet. 
There's much to learn and much to do ; 

Oh, may our aims be high, 
And ever lead toward that bright land. 

Where none shall say "Good-bye." 

A. F. SH0AI5. 



4 



A JUNIOR PARTNER WANTED. 



^ here's a junior partner wanted 
By Will Succeed & Co., 

Who do a rushing business 
Way up in Fortune Row. 

I've seen their advertisement — 
* * No capital required ; " ^ 

But boys with pluck and courage 
Are just the kind desired. 



They want a boy who has no fear 
Of steady, plodding work ; 

Who does not wait for luck or fate, 
Who scorns a task to shirk. 

Who slowly, surely digs his way 
Through problems hard a score. 

And still has grit and courage left 
To try as many more. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



63 



Who can view a two-foot column 

Of figures undismayed, 
And through a tough analysis 

Or conjugation wade. 

Who takes each school-time lesson 
And makes it all his own, 

Thus laying up his future 
On good foundation stone. 

Who does not wait for help to come 

From fairy, witch or elf, 
But laying hold on Fortune's wheel 

Turns it around himself. 



And if it grinds and will not move 

With all his care and toil. 
He rubs each shaft and gearing well 

With *' perseverance oil." 

Who knows that luck is but a myth. 

And faith is but a name, 
That plod and push and patience 

At last will win the game. 

And lads like this are just the kind 

For Will Succeed & Co., 
Who are wanting junior partners 

Way up on Fortune Row. 

M. E. Sanford. 



MATT. F. WARD'S TRIAL FOR MURDER, 




'ENTLEMEN, my task is done, the decis- 
ion of this case — the fate of this prisoner 
— is in your hands. Guilty or innocent 
—life or death — whether the captive shall joy- 
fully go free, or be consigned to a disgraceful 
and ignominious death — all depend on a few 
words from you. Is there anything in this world 
more like Omnipotence, more like the power of 
the Eternal, than that you now possess ? 

Yes, you are to decide ; and, as I leave the 
case with you, I implore you to consider it well 
and mercifully before you pronounce a verdict of 
guilty, — a. verdict which is to cut asunder all the 
tender cords that bind heart to heart, and to 
consign this young man, in the flower of his 
days and in the midst of his hopes, to shame and 
to death. Such a verdict must often come up in 
your recollections — must live forever in your 
minds. 

And in after-days, when the wild voice of 
clamor that now fills the air is hushed, when 
memory shall review this busy scene, should her 
accusing voice tell you you have dealt hardly 
with a brother's life, — that you have sent him to 
death, when you have a doubt whether it is not 
your duty to restore him to life, oh, what a 
moment that must be ! how like a cancer will 
I that remembrance prey upon your hearts ! 

But if, on the other hand, navmg rendered a 



contrary verdict, you feel that there should have 
been a conviction, — fkaf sentiment will be easily 
satisfied; you will say, *'If I. erred, it was 
on the side of mercy ; thank God I incurred no 
hazard by condemning a man I thought inno- 
cent." How different the memory from that 
which may come in any calm moment, by day 
or by night, knocking at the door of your 
hearts, and reminding you that in a case wher? 
you were doubtful, by your verdict you sent an 
innocent man to disgrace and to death! Oh, 
pronounce no such, I beseech you, but on the 
most certain, clear, and solid grounds ! If you 
err, for your own sake, as well as his, keep on 
the side of humanity, and save him from so dis- 
honorable a fate — preserve yourselves from so 
bitter a memory. 

I am no advocate, gentlemen, of any criminal 
licentiousness, — I desire that society may be 
protected, that the laws of my country may be 
obeyed and enforced. Any other state of 
things I should deplore ; but I have examined 
this case, I think, carefully and calmly; I see 
much to regret, much that I wish had never 
happened ; but I see no evil intentions and 
motives, no wicked malignity, and, therefore, 
no murder — no felony. 

There is another consideration of which we 
should not be unmindful. We are all conscious 



64 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



of the infirmities of our nature, we are all sub- 
ject to them. The law makes an allowance for 
such infirmities. The Author of our being has 
been pleased to fashion us out of great and 
mighty elements, which make us but a little 
lower th«,n the angels, but he has mingled in 
our composition, weakness and passions. Will 
He punish us for frailties which nature has 
stamped upon us, or for their necessary results ? 
The distinction between these and acts that pro- 
ceed from a wicked and malignant heart is 
founded on eternal justice, and in the words of 
the Psalmist, " He knoweth our frame — He 
remembereth that we are dust. ' ' Shall not the 
rule He has established be good enough for us 
to judge by ? 

Gentlemen, the case is closed. Again I ask 
you to consider it well before you pronounce a 
verdict which shall consign this prisoner to a 
grave of ignominy and dishonor. These are no 
id^^ words you have heard so often. This is 
yom fellow-citizen — a youth of promise — the 
rose of his family — the possessor of all kind, and 
virtuous, and manly qualities. It is the blood 
of a Kentuckian you are caUed upon to shed. 
The blood that flows in his veins has come down 



from those noble pioneers who laid the founda- 
tions for the greatness and glory of our State ; 
it is the blood of a race who have never spared 
it when demanded by their country's cause. It 
is his fate you are to decide. I excite no poor, 
unmanly sympathy — I appeal to no low, groveling 
spirit. He is a man — you are men — and I only 
want that sympathy which man can give to man 
I will not detain you longer. But you kno\\ 
and it is right you should, the terrible suspens 
in which some of these hearts must beat during 
your absence. It is proper for you to considei 
this, for, in such a case, all the feelings of the 
mind and heart should sit in council together. 
Your duty is yet to be done ; perform it as you 
are ready to answer for it, here and hereafter. 
Perform it calmly and dispassionately, remem 
bering that vengeance can give no satisfaction 
to any human being. But if you exercise it in 
this case, it will spread black midnight and 
despair over many aching hearts. May the God 
of all mercy be with you in your deliberations, 
assist you in the performance of your duty, and 
teach you to judge your fellow-being as you hope 
to be judged hereafter. 

JoHN'J. Crittenden. 



KATE MALONEY. 



fN the winter, when the snowdrift stood 
against the cabin door, 
Kate Maloney, wife of. Patrick, lay nigh 
dying on the floor, — 
Lay on rags and tattered garments, moaning out 

with feeble breath, 
**Knale beside me, Pat, mydarlint; pray the 
Lord to give me death.*' 

Patrick knelt him down beside her, took her thin 

and wasted hand. 
Saying something to her softly that she scarce 

could understand. 
"Let me save ye, O my honey ! Only spake a 

single word. 
And I'll sell the golden secret where it's wanted 

to be heard. 



"Sure it cuts my heart to see ye lyin' dyin' day! 

by day. 
When it's food and warmth ye 're wanting just 

to dhrive yer pains away. 
There's a hundred golden guineas at my mercy 

if ye will — 
Do ye know that Mickey Regan! s in the hut upon 

the Ml W 

Kate Maloney gripped her husband, then she 

looked him through and through ; 
"Pat Maloney, am I dhraming? Did I hear 

them words o' you? 
Have I lived an honest woman, lovin' Ireland^ 

God, and thee, 
That now upon my death-bed ye should spaJs* 

them words to me ? 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



65 



**Come yc here, ye tremblin' traitor; stand 

beside me now and swear 
By yer soul and yer hereafther, while he lives 

ye will not dare 
Whisper e'en a single letter o' brave Mickey 

Regan's name. 
Can't I die o' cold and hunger? Would ye have 

me die o' shame? 

*«Let the Saxon bloodhounds hunt him, let 

them show their filthy gold ; 
What's the poor boy done to hurt 'em ? Killed 

a rascal rich and old, — 
Shot an English thief who robbed us, grinding 

Irish peasants down ; 
Kaisin' rints to pay his wantons and his lackeys 

up in town. 

•*We are beasts, we Irish peasants, whom these 

Saxon tyrants spurn ; 
If ye hunt a beast too closely, and ye wound 

him, won't he turn? 
Wasn't Regan's sister ruined by the blackguard 

lying dead, 
Who was paid his rint last Monday, not in 

silver, but in lead ? ' ' 

Pat Maloney stood and listened, then he knelt 

and kissed his wife : 
**Kiss me, darlint, and forgive me; sure, I 

thought to save your life ; 
And it's hard to see ye dyin' when the gold's 

within my reach, 
m be lonely when ye' re gone, dear — " here a 

whimper stopned his speech. 

Late that night, when Kate was dozing, Pat 
crept cautiously away 

From his cabin to the hovel where the hunted 
Regan lay ; 

He was there — he heard him breathing ; some- 
thing whispered to him, * ' Go ! 

Go and claim the hundred guineas — Kate will 
never need to know. ' ' 

He would plan some little story when he brought 
her food to eat, 
6 



He would say the priest had met him, and haa 

sent her wine and meat. 
No one passed their lonely cabin ; Kate would 

lie and fancy still 
Mike had slipped away in secret from the hut 

upon the hill. 

Kate Maloney woke and missed him ; guessed 

his errand there and then ; 
Raised her feeble voice and cursed him with the 

curse of God and men. 
From her rags she slowly staggered, took her 

husband's loaded gun. 
Crying, '*God, I pray Thee, help me, ere the 

traitor's deed be done ! " 

All her limbs were weak mth fever as she 

crawled across the floor ; 
But she writhed and struggled bravely till she 

reached the cabin door ; 
Thence' she scanned the open country, for the 

moon was in its prime. 
And she saw her husband running, and she 

thought, ** there yet is time." 

He had come from Regan's hiding, past the 

door, and now he went 
"By the pathway down the mountain, on his evil 

errand bent. 
Once she called him, but he stopped not, neither 

gave he glance behind, 
For her voice was weak and feeble, and it melted 

on the wind. 

Then a sudden strength came to her, and she 
rose and followed fast. 

Though her naked limbs were frozen by the 
bitter winter blast ; 

She had reached him very nearly when her new- 
born spirit fled. 

"God has willed it!" cried ^the woman, fk£M 
she shot the traitor dead / 

From her bloodless lips, haK frozen, rose a 

whisper to the sky — 
*' I have saved his soul from treason; here, O 

Heaven, let me die. 



Q6 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



Now no babe unborn shall curse him, nor his 

country loathe his name , 
I have saved ye, O my husband, from a deed of 

deathless shame. ' ' 

No one yet has guessed their story ; Mickey 
Regan got away. 



And across the kind Atlantic lives an honebl 
man to-day ; 

While in Galway still the peasants show the 
lonely mountain side 

Where an Irishman was murdered and an Irish- 
woman died. 

Dagonet. 



ONE DAY SOLITARY. 



^ AM all right ! Good-bye, old chap ! 
($) Twenty-four hours, that won't be long; 
Nothing to do but take a nap. 

And — say ! can a fellow sing a song ? 
Will the light fantastic be in order — 

A pigeon-wing on your pantry floor ? 
Where are the rules for a regular boarder ? 

Be quiet? All right! Cling-clang goes the door. 

Clang-clink the bolts, and I am locked in ; 

Some pious reflection and repentance 
Come next, I suppose, for I just begin 

To perceive the sting in the tail of my sen- 
tence — 
" One day whereof shall be solitary." 

Here I am at the end of my journey, 
And — ^well, it ain't jolly, not so very — 

I'd like to thrott that sharp attorney ! 

He took my money, yes, the very last dollar, 

Didn't leave me so much as a dime. 
Not enough to buy me a paper collar 

To wear at my trial ; he knew all the time 
'Twas some that I got for the stolen silver; 

Why hasn't he been indicted, too? 
If he doesn't exactly rob and pilfer. 

He lives by the plunder of them that do. 

Then didn't it put me into a fury. 

To see him step up, and laugh and chat 
With the county attorney, and joke with the jury. 

When all was over, then go back for his hat 
While Sue was sobbing to break her heart. 

And all I could do was to stand and stare ! 
■ He had pleaded my cause, he had played his part, 

And got his fee — ^and what more did he care ? 



It's droll to think how, just out yonder. 

The world goes jogging on the same ; 
Old men will save, and boys will squander, 

And fellows will play at the same old game 
Of get-and-spend — to-morrow, next year — 

And drink and carouse, and who will there be 
To remember a comrade buried here ? " 

I am nothing to them, they are nothing to ms 

And Sue — yes, she will forget me, too, 

I know ; already her tears are drying. 
I believe there is nothing that girl can do 

So easy as laughing, and lying, and crying. 
She clung to me well while there was hope. 

Then broke her heart in that last wild sob ; 
But she ain't going to sit and mope 

While I am at work on a five years' job. 

They'll set me to learning a trade, no doubt, 

And I must forget to speak or smile, 
I shall go marching in and out. 

One of a silent, tramping file < 

Of felons, at morning, and noon, and night — 

Just down to the shops, and back to the cells. 
And work with a thief at left and right, 

And feed, and sleep, and — nothing else. 



\ 



Was I born for this ? Will the old folks know ? 

I can see them now on the old home-place ; 
His gait is feeble, his step is slow. 

There's a settled grief in his furrowed face; 
While she goes wearily groping about 

In a sort of dream, so bent, so sad ! 
But this won't do ! I must sing and shout, 

And forget myself, or else go mad. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



e-y 



I won't be foolish ; although for a minute 

I was there in my little room ^nce more. 
What wouldn't I give just now to be in it? 

The bed is yonder, and there is the door ; 
The Bible is here on the neat white stand ; 

The summer sweets are ripening now ; 
In the flickering light I reach my hand 

From the window, and pluck them from the 
bough. 

When I was a child, (Oh, well for me 

And them if I had never been older ! ) 
When he told me stories on his knee. 

And tossed me, and carried me on his shoulder ; 
When she knelt down and heard my prayer, 

And gave me, in my bed, my good-night kiss — 
Did they ever think that all their care 

For an only son could come to thisV 

Foolish again ! No sense in tears 

And gnashing the teeth ; and yet, somehow, 
I haven't thought of them so for years ; 

I never knew them, I think, till now. 
Kow fondly, how blindly, they trusted me ! 

When I should have been in my bed asleep, 
I slipped from the window, and down the tree, 

And sowed for the harvest which now I reap. 

And Jennie — how could I bear to leave her ? 

If I had but wished — but I was a fool ! 
My heart was filled with a thirst and a fever. 

Which no sweet airs of heaven could cool. 



I can hear her asking : '* Have you heard ?'* 
But mother falters and shakes her head ; 

**0 Jennie ! Jennie ' never a word ! 
What can it mean ? He must be dead I *' 

Light-hearted, a proud, ambitious lad, 

[ left my home that morning in May ; 
What visions, what hopes^ what plans I had } 

And what have I — where are they all — to-day r 
Wild fellows, and wine, and debts, and gaming, 

Disgrace, and the los*^ of place and friend ; 
And I was an outlaw, past reclaiming ; 

Arrest and sentence, and — this is tlie end ! 

Five years J Shall ever I quit this prison ? 

Homeless, an outcast, where shall I go ? 
Return to them, like one arisen 

From the grave, that was buried long ago ? 
All is still ; 'tis the close of the week ; 

I slink through the garden, I stop by the well. 
I see him totter, I hear her shriek ! — 

What sort of a tale will I have to tell ? 

But here 1 am ! What's the use of grieving? 

Five years — will it be too late to begin ? 
Can sober thinking and honest living 

Still make me the man I might have been ? 
I'll sleep : — Oh, would I could wake to-morrow 

In that old room, to find, at last. 
That all my trouble and all their sorrow 

Are only a dream of the night that is past. 
J. T. Trowbridge, 



WORDS OF WELCOME. 



r^IND friends and parents, we welcome you 

r^^ here 

. @) To our nice pleasant school-room, and 

teacher so dear ; 
We wish but to show you how much we have 

learned. 
And how to our lessons our hearts have been 

turned. 

But hope you'll remember we are all quite young. 
And when we have spoken, recited and sung. 



You will pardon our blunders, which, as all are 

awarCj 
May even extend to the President's chair. 

Our life is a school time, and at length it will 

end, 
With our Father in heaven for teacher and 

friend. 
O let us perform well each task that is given, 
Till our time of probation is ended in heaveo. 



68 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



SPEECH OF RED JACKET. 

[Red ^SiC^et—Sa-go-ye-wat-ha, his Indian name, meaning " He keeps them awake "—was one of the most powerful chiefs 
of the Six Nations, the head of the Senecas, New York. During the Revolution his activity and intelligence acquired for him 
the friendship of the British officers, who, as a compliment or for services rendered, gave him a richly embroidered scarlet 
jacket which he wore with great pride, and from it was given to him his English name. Red Jacket was a man of great 
eloquence, and truthfully stated of himself, " I am an orator ! I was born an orator ! " In the summer of 1805 a missionary 
was sent to the Six Nations by the Evangelical Missionary Society of Massachusetts to plant a station among the Senecas. A 
council of chiefs was convoked to hear his proposals, and after two hours' consultation Red Jacket made reply.] 



ROTHER, listen to what we say. There 
was a time when our forefathers owned 
this great island. Their seats extended 
from the rising to the setting sun. The Great 
Spirit had made it for the use of the Indians. 
He had created the buffalo, the deer, and other 
animals for food. He had scattered them over 
the country and taught us how to take them. He 
had caused the earth to produce corn for bread. 
All this he had done for his red children, because 
he loved them. If we had some disputes about 
our hunting ground, they were generally settled 
without the shedding of much blood. But an 
evil day came upon us. Your forefathers crossed 
the great water and landed on this island. They 
found friends and not enemies. They told us 
they had fled from their own country for fear of 
v/icked men, and had come here to enjoy their 
religion. They asked for a small seat. We took 
pity on them and granted their request. They 
sat down among us. We gave them corn and 
meat. They gave us poison in return. They 
called us brothers. We believed them, and 
gave them a larger seat. They wanted more 
land-; they wanted our country. Our eyes were 
opened and our minds became uneasy. Indians 
were hired to fight against Indians, and many of 
our people were destroyed. 

Brother, you have now become a great people, 
and we have scarcely a place left to spread our 



blankets. You have got our coantry, but are not 
satisfied ; you want to force your religion upon 
us. You say that you are sent to instruct us 
how to worship the Great Spirit agreeably to his 
mind, and if we do not take hold of the religion 
which you white people teach, we shall be 
unhappy hereafter. How do we know this to be 
true? We only know what you tell us about it. 
How shall we know when to believe, being so 
often deceived by the white people ? We under- 
stand that your religion is written in a book. If 
Iher^ is but one religion, why do you white 
people differ so much about it? Why not all 
agree, as you can all read the book ? 

Brother, we do not understand these things. 
We are told that your religion was given to your 
forefathers, and has been handed down from 
father to son. We also have a religion, which 
was given to our forefathers and has been handed 
down to their children. It teaches us to be 
thankful for all the favors we receive, to love 
each other, and to be united. We never quarrel 
about religion. We are told that you have been 
preaching to the white people in this place. 
These people are our neighbors. We will wait a 
little while and see what effect your preaching 
has upon them. If we find it does them good, 
makes them honest, and less disposed to cheat 
Indians, we will consider again what you have 
said. 



THE OLD MAN'S VIGIL. 



Y the bed the old man, waiting, sat in vigil, 
sad and tender. 
Where his aged wife lay dying > and the 
twilight shadows, brown, 
Slowly from the wall and window, chased the 
sunset's golden splendor 
Going down. 



**Is it night?" she whispered, waking, (for her 

spirit seemed to hover 
Lost between the next world's sunrise *and the 

bedtime cares of this). 
And the old man, weak and tearful, trembling 

as he bent above her, 

Answered **Yes.'* 




f 



LITTLE CHILD'S PRAYER. 

(Suggestion For Tableau.) 

"Jesus I would be like thee, 
Look from heaven and pity me. 
Though so full of sin I am, 
Make me now thy little lamb.' 




NOBODY'S CHILD 
(Suggestion for Tableau) 

' ' All day I wander to and fro 
Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go 
Oh ! Why does the wind blow upon me so wild? 
Is it because I'm nobody's child?" 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



69 



"Are the children in?" she asked him. Could 

he tell her ? All the treasures 
Of their household lay in silence many yeajs 

beneath the snow ; 
But her heart was with them living, back among 

her toils and pleasures 

Long ago. 

'Ajid again she called at dew-fall, in the sweet, 
old, summer weather, 
** Where is little Charley, father? Frank and 

» Robert, have they come ? ' ' 

* They are safe, ' ' the old man faltered, — "all the 
children are together. 
Safe at home." 

Then he murmured gentle soothings, but his 
grief grew strong and stronger. 
Till it choked and stilled him as he held and 
kissed her wTinkled hand. 

For her soul, far out of hearing, could his fond- 
est words no longer 
Understand. 

StilJ the pale lips stammered questions, lullabies 
and broken verses. 
Nursery prattle — all the language of a 
mo tiler's loving heeds. 



While the midnight * round the mourner, left to 
sorrow's bitter mercies. 
Wrapped its weeds. 

There was stillness on the pillow-- and the old 

man Hstened, lonely — 
Till they led him from the chamber with the 

burden on his breast. 
For the faithful wife and mother, his early love 

and only 

Lay at rest. 

' ' Fare — you —well, ' ' he sobbed, ' 'my Sarah ; you 

will meet the babes before me ; 
'Tis a little while, for neither can the parting 

long abide. 
And you soon will come and call me, and kind 

heaven will then restore me 

To your side." 

It Tvas even so. The springtime, in the steps 

of winter treading. 
Scarcely shed its orchard blossoms ere the old 

man closed his eyes ; 
And they biuried him by Sarah — and they had 

their *' diamond wedding" 

In the skies. 



ADVICE TO A YOUNG MAN. 



fEMEMBER, my son, you have to work. 
Whether you handle a pick or a pen, a 
wheelbarrow or a set of books, digging 
ditches or editing a paper, ringing an auction 
bell or ^vriting funny things, you must work. If 
you look around, you will see the men who are 
the most able to live the rest of their days with- 
yout work are the men who work the hardest. 
Don't be afraid of killing yourself with over- 
work. It is beyond your power to do that on 
the sunny side of thirty. They die sometimes, 
but it is because they quit work at six p. m., and 
don't get home until two a. m. It's the interval 
that kills, my son. The v/ork gives you an 
f4)petite for your meals; ^t lends solidity to 



your slumbers ; it gives you a perfect and grate- 
ful appreciation of a holiday. 

There are young men who do not work, but 
the world is not proud of them. It does not 
know their names, even ; it simply speaks of 
them as * ' old So-and-so's boys. ' ' Nobody likes 
them; the great, busy world doesn't know that 
they are there. So find out what you want to be 
and do, and take off your coat and make a dust 
in the world. The busier you are, the less harm 
you will be apt to get into, the sweeter will be 
your sleep, the brighter and happier your holi- 
days, and the better satisfied will the world be 
with you. 

R. J. BURDETTE. 



70 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



BOYS WANTED. 



OYS of spirit, boys of will, ' * 
Boys of muscle, brain and power. 

Fit to cope with anything, 
These are wanted every hour. 

Not the weak and whining drones. 
Who all troubles magnify ; 

Not the watchword of '*I can't,*' 
But the nobler one, ''V\\ try.*' 

Do whate'er you have to do 
With a true and earnest zeal ; 



Bend your sinews to the task, 

** Put your shoulder to the wheel." 

Though your duty may be hard. 

Look not on it as an ill ; 
If it be an honest' task. 

Do it with an honest will. 

In the workshop, on the farm. 
At the desk, where'er you be. 

From your future efforts, boys. 
Comes a nation's destiny. 



WEALTH AND WORK. 



/^LL that is said ol the peril of riches does 
l^r not go foif much when the opportunity 
/ offers for one to improve his worldly con- 

dition. Poets sometimes chant the beauties of 
poverty, but not those who write in a cold garret, 
with only a crust of bread and a jug of water to 
keep them alive. They are too familiar with the 
bitter reality to make it the subject of laudatory 
song. When a man has a snug little cottage of 
his own, with a cosy corner looking out upon the 
trees and flowers, where he can sit and write in 
peace, sure that his frugal board will be furnished 
with ** convenient food," he may romance to 
his heart's content about the vanity of riches. 

Savages never accumulate wealth ; if they did 
they would be sure to be robbed of it. They 
live from hand to mouth ; mainly by hunting 
and plunder. The tribe is everything and the 
individual nothing. No person has any' private 
right of property which the tribe is bound to 
respect ; and no tribe has any rights which 
another tribe will not wrench from them if they are 
strong enough to do so. The rule is for every- 
one to take whatever he can lay his hand on. 
And consume it, if possible, before anyone else 
can steal it from him. In such a state of things 
as that there is no danger of anyone's getting 
rich. 
As soon as men begin to lay by something 



which they can call their own, the first step in 
civilization is taken, and the days of absolute 
barbarism are over. 

When a man is ready to sacrifice everything 
else for the sake of making himself rich, he 
deserves to be scorned ; but if the desire after 
riches should all at once die out in the commu- 
nity — of which there is at present very little 
danger— the wheels of progress would cease to 
move. 

It is this desire that incites men to labor, 
wnich is another token that distinguishes civi- 
lization from barbarism. Savages are always 
lazy. The men make the women work, and the 
women do as little work as possible. 

The propensity to accumulate wealth has done 
more than anything else to check the insane pas- 
sion for war, which has always filled the world 
with violence, and to do away with the habit of 
private revenge. 

When men have money on deposit they are 
not likely to settle a disputed claim by knocking 
their adversary down, or sticking a knife into his 
ribs as was the ci^stom in the dark ages, when 
property was held by a very precarious tenure. 

It is a good thing that war is every day^etting 
to be more and more expensive^ and when the 
nations feel that this costly luxury must plunge 
them into utter bankruptcy, they will l^am to 



J 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



71 



I 



respect the rights of others and let them alone. 
It is an immoral thing to take the property of 
others without rendering a fair equivalent. 
Burglars, and all sorts of professional thieves, do 
this without scruple. There is no hypocrisy in 
their transactions. All kinds of gambling come 
^tinder the same head, and this does sometimes 
put on the garb of hypocrisy, as the soft and 
gentle names by which it is called indicate. 

There are men in high standing who become 
rich without rendering the slightest return to the 
world at large. To trade upon the chances of 
the future, with nothing in hand to trade with, 
is the same thing in principle that it is to risk all 
upon the hazard of a die. 

There are others who fail to render a fair 
equivalent for the money which they receive, 



giving short weight and poor measure, and sell- 
ing an unsound or adulterated article knowing it 
to be so. Better to die in poverty than to 
become rich by such device. 

Others become rich by accident. They wake 
up poor in the morning and go to bed million- 
aires at night. A great fortune drops upon them 
suddenly, as if it fell from the skies, and unless 
the man can keep his head, the wealth that il 
thus attained is very apt soon to take to itself 
wings, and fly away. 

It is another thing when wealth is gradually 
acquired by the honest labor of the hands and 
the brain. Then society is likely to be bene- 
fitted as well as the prospered man himself. It 
is this which dignifies wealth and makes its 
possessor honorable. 



THE FARMER. 

(For Several Boys. ) 



'HIS is the way the happy farmer (i) 
Plows his piece of ground^ 

That from the little seeds he sows 
A large crop may abound. 

This is the way he sows the seed, (2) 
Dropping with careful hand. 

In all the furrows well prepared 
Upon the fertile land. 



This is the way he cuts the grain (3) 
When bending with its weight ; 

And thus he bundles it in sheaves, (4) 
Working long and late. 

And then the grain he threshes thus, (5) 

And stores away to keep j 
And thus he stands contentedly (6) 

And views the plenteous heap. 



1. Arms extended forward as though holding a plow. 

2. A motion as of taking seed out of a bag or basket, and scattering with the right hand. 

3. Motion as of cutting with a scythe. 

4. Arms curved and extended forward. 

5. Hands as though grasping a flail. Strike with some force. 

6. Erect position, arms folded, or hands on the hips. 



TSAR OLEG, 



^SAR OLEG was riding through holy Kieff, 
With the bright, flashing trooping spear 
and shield. 

And his loving people bent low where he passed. 
As the wind sweeps over the full-ripe field. 

When with staff" upheld in the swaying throng. 
The royal soothsayer stood in the way, 



And he cried: '* Beware! Death shall smite' 
thee, O King, 
From the milk-white steed thou bestrides'f 
to-day!" 

Tsar Oleg, he pondered and mused awhile, 
And anon he alit from his gallant steed : 
''An' if this must be, I will ride thee no more. 



72 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



Go, lead him, ye grooms, to some green sunny 
mead. ' ' 

When a herald came out of the Grecian bounds, 
And for tribute refused blew a challenge of 
) war, 

Tsar Oleg leaped on a berry -brown steed, 
And led his hosts to the southward afar. 

Till he girdled the Bosphorus-gazing walls. 
And made the Caesars bow down to fate, 

And, departing, he said : * ' Be forever a mark ! ' ' 
And he fixed his shield on the city's gate. 

And in triumph to holy Kieff he returned. 

With hostages, plunder, and martial spoils. 
And he said in his heart : *^ We have fought, we 
have won. 
We will rest now, in glory, from warlike 
toils." 

When he sudden remembered the warning voice 
That smote his ears as he rode to war, 

And he bade the soothsayer before him stand : 
" How twinkles, O prophet, my fateful star? 

**How prances the faithful and baleful steed? 
Will he neigh, will he leap to the trumpet 
still?" 
**0h, my liege, nevermore; for these seven 
years' wind 



Hath his bones all bleached on your green 
hill." 

Up rose Tsar Oleg and called for his horse. 
And he followed the seer to that south slop- 
ing lea ; 
He went, gyved and guarded, that soothsayer 
gray, 
And yet with a steady, proud step walked he. 

And the King saw the bones of his milk-white 
steed, 

Where the tops of the deep grass rose and fell, 
And the silver shod hoofs and the bridle of gold, 

And the golden stirrups, he knew them well ; 

And he set his hoof on the hollow skull. 

While his nobles stood round him with bated 
breath, 
And he asked, with scorning: *'Thou prophet 
of ills 
Comes hurt from a carcass, or death from 
death?" 

And he spake to his guards: ''Let the false pro^ 
phet die ! ' ' 
''The fates know me royal," he thought in 
his pride. 
When lo ! from the skull sprang an adder fanged. 
And stilled with its venom his heart's high 
tide. 

J. J. Kenealy. 



THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. 




^-,^^'ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown 
\l)) its latest ray, 

Where, in his last strong agony, a dying 
warrior lay, 
The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had 

ne'er been bent 
By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength 
had spent. 

** They come around me here, and say my days 
of life are o'er; 



That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my 

band no more ; 
They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell 

me now that I, 
Their own liege lord and master born, that I,— 

ha ! ha ! — must die. 

"And what is death ? I've dared him oft, "before 

the Paynim spear ; 
Think ye he's entered at my gate.- -has come 

to seek me here ? 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



73 



I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the 

fight was raging hot ; — 
I'll try his might, I'll brave his power; defy, 

and fear him not. 

** Ho ! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire 

the culverin ; 
Bid each retainer arm with speed ; call every 

vassal in j 
Up with my banner on the wall ; the banquet 

board prepare ; 
Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my 

armor there ! ' ' 

A hundred hands were busy then : the banquet 

forth was spread. 
And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a 

martial tread ; 
While from the rich, dark tracery, along the 

vaulted wall, 
Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, 

o'er the proud old Gothic hall. 

Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed 

retainers poured, 
On through the portal's frowming arch, and 

thronged around the board ; 
While at its head, within his dark, carved oaken 

chair of state. 
Armed cap-a-pie, stem Rudiger, wdth girded 

falchion, sate. 

** Fill every beaker up, my men ; pour forth the 
cheering wine ; 



There's life and strength in every drop ;— thanks- 
giving to the vine ! 

Are ye all there, my vassals true ? mine eyes are 
waxing dim ; 

Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each 
goblet to the brim. 

'' Ye' re there, but yet I see you not ; draw forth 

each trusty sword, 
And let me hear your faithful steel clash once 

around my board ; 
I hear it faintly ; — louder ^et ! 'WTiat clogs my 

heavy breath ? 
Up, all ! and shout for Rudiger, ' Defiance unto 

death!'" 

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and 

rose a deafening cry. 
That made the torches flare around, and shook 

the flags on high. 
''Ho! cravens I do ye fear him? Slaves! 

traitors I have ye flown ? 
Ho ! cowards, have ye left me to meet him 

here alone?" 

"But I defy him ; let him come ! " Down rang 

the massy cup, 
^Vhile from its sheath the ready blade came 

flashing half-way up ; 
And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce 

trembling on his head. 
There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, od 

Rudiger sat, — dead ! 

Albert G. Greenb 



THE STOWAWAY. 



>0W, lads, a short yam I'll just spin you 
As happened on our very last mn — 
* Bout a boy as a man's soul had in him, 
Or else I'm a son of a gun. 

From Liverpool port out three days, lads, 
The good ship floating over the deep, 

The skies bright with sunshine above us, 
The waters beneath us asleep. 



Not a bad-tempered lubber among us, 

A jollier crew never sailed, 
' Cept the first mate, a bit of a savag% 

But good seaman as ever was haile<l. 

Regulation, good order, his motto/ 
Strong as iron, steady as quick ; 

With a couple of bushy black eyebrows, 
And eyes fierce as those of Old NicV 



74 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



One day he comes up from below 
A-graspin' a lad by the ami — 
A poor little ragged young urchin 
— ^As had ought to bin home to his marm. 

iVri* the mate asks the boy, pretty roughly. 
How he dared for to be stowed away, 

A.-cheatin' the owners and captain, 
Sailin', eatin' and all without pay. 

The lad had a face bright and sunny, ^ 
An' a pair o' blue eyes like a girl's, 

An' looks up at the scowlin' first mate, lads. 
An' shakes back his long, shining curls. 

An* says he, in a voice dear and pretty, 
''My step-father brought me aboard. 

And hid me away down the stairs there ; 
For to keep me he couldn't afford. 

•'And he told me the big ship would take me 

To Halifax town — oh, so far ! 
And he said, ' Now the Lord is your father. 

Who lives wlvere the good angels are.' '* 

"It's a lie," says the mate ; "not your father, 
But some of these big skulkers aboard ; 

Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor. 
Speak up, tell the truth, d'ye hear?** 

"'Twarn't us," growled the tars as stood round 
'em. 
"What's your age?" says one of the brine. 
"And your name?" says another old salt fish. 
Says the small chap, "I'm Frank, just turned 
nine." 

"Oh, my eyes ! " says another bronzed seaman 
To the mate, who seemed staggered hisself, 

"Let him go free to old Novy Scoshy, 
And I'll work out his passage myself.'* 

"Belay!" says the mate; "shut your mouth, 
man ! 

I'll sail this 'ere craft, bet your life. 
An' I'll fit the lie onto you somehow, 

As square as a fork fits a knife. *'^ 



Then a-knitting his black brows with anger 

He tumbled the poor slip below ; 
An', says he, "Perhaps to-morrow' 11 change 
you; 

If it don't, back to England you go." 

I took him some dinner, be sure, mates, ^ 

Just think, only nine years of age I 

An' next day, just as six bells tolled, I 

The mate brings him up from his caige. 

An' he plants him before us amidships. 
His eyes like two coals all a-light ; 

An' he says, through his teeth, mad with passion. 
An' his hand lifted ready to smite, 

"Tell the truth, lad, and then I'll forgive you; 

But the truth I will have. Speak it out. 
It wasn't your father as brought you, 

But some of these men hereabout. ' ' 

Then that pair o' blue eyes, bright aad winning. 
Clear and shining with innocent youth, 

Looks up at the mate's bushy eyebrows ; 

An', says he, "Sir, I've told you the truth." 

'Twarn't no use, the mate didn't believe him. 
Though every man else did, aboard ; 

With rough hands by the collar he seized him, 
And cried, "You shall hang, by the- Lord !" 

An' he snatched his watch out of his pocket. 
Just as if he'd been drawing a knife. 

"If in ten minutes more you don't speak, lad. 
There's the rope, and good-by to your life." 

There ! you never see such a sight, mates. 
As that boy with his bright, pretty face — 

Proud, though, and steady with courage. 
Never thinking of asking for grace. 

Eight minutes went by all in silence. 

Says the mate then, "Speak, lad-^say your 
say." 

His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops, 
He faltering says, "May I pray?" 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



15 



Fm a rough and hard old tarpa'lin 

As any '* blue-jacket " afloat ; 
But the salt water springs to my eyes, lads. 

And I felt my heart rise in my throat. 

The mate kind o* trembled an' shivered, 

And nodded his head in reply ; 
And his cheek went all white of a sudden, 

And the hot light was quenched in his eye. 

Tho' he stood like a figure of marble, 

With his watch tightly grasped in his hand, 

■ And the passengers all still around him ; 
Ne'er the like was on sea or on land. 

An' the little chap kneels on the deck there. 
An' his hands he clasps over his breast. 

As he must ha' done often at home, lads. 
At night-time, when going to rest. 

And soft come the first words, *' Our Father,** 
Low and soft from the dear baby-Hp ; 

But, low as they were, heard like trumpet 
3y each true man aboard of that ship. 

Ev'ry bit of that prayer, mates, he goes through. 

To *^ Forever and ever. Amen." 
And for all the bright gold of the Indies 

I wouldn't ha' heard it again. 

And, says he, when he finished, uprising 

An' lifting his blue eyes above, 
"Dear Lord Jesus, oh, take me to heaven. 

Back again to my own mother's love ! " 



For a minute or two, like a magic. 
We stood every man like the dead. 

Then back to the mate's face comes running 
The life-blood again, warm a^d red. 

Off his feet was that lad sudden lifted. 
And clasped to the mate's rugged breast. 

And his husky voice muttered, ' ' God bless you ! '' 
As his Dps to his forehead he pressed. 

If the ship hadn't been a good sailer. 

And gone by herself right along, 
All had gone to Old Davy ; for all, lads. 

Was gathered 'round in that throng. 

Like a man, says the mate, *^God forgive me 

That ever I used you so hard. 
It's myself as had ought^ to be strung up. 

Taut and sure, to that ugly old yard. ' ' 

**You believe me, then? " said the youngster, 
"Believe you ! " -—He kissed him once more. 

'* You'd have laid down your life for the tru';h, 
lad; 
Believe you ? From now, evermore ! ' ' 

An p'r'aps, mates, he wasn't thought much on 
All that day and the rest of the trip ; 

P'r'aps, he paid, after all, for his passage ; 
P'r'aps, he wasn't the pet of the ship ! 

An' if that little chap ain't a model 
For all, young or old, short or tall. 

And if that ain't the stuff to make men of. 
Old Ben, he knows naught after all. 

Matthison. 



DO YOUR BEST. 



O your best, your very best. 

And do it every day. 
Little boys and little girls. 

That is the wisest way. 

Whatever work comes to your hand. 
At home or at your school, 

Do your best with right good will ; 
It is a golden rule- 



For he who always does his best, 
His best will better grow ; 

But he who shirks or slights his task. 
Lets all the better go. 

What if your lessons should be hard ? 

You need not yield to sorrow. 
For he who bravely works to-day, 

His task grows bright to-morrow. 



76 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



A BOY'S OPINION. 



'HE girls may have their dollies. 
Made of china or of wax ; 

I prefer a little hammer, 
And a paper full of tacks. 

There's such comfort in a chisel ! 

And such music in a file .' 
I wish that little pocket-saws 

Would get to be the style ! 



My kite may fly up in the iree; 

My sled be stuck in mud ; 
And all my hopes of digging wells 
Be nipped off in the bud. 

But with a little box of nails, 

A gimlet and a screw, 
I'm happier than any king; 

I've work enough to do. 



THE SOLDIER'S PARDON. 



W 



'ILD blew the gale in Gibralter one night, 

As a soldier lay stretched in his cell ; 
And anon, 'mid .die darkness, the moon's 
silver light 
On his countenance dreamily fell. 
Naught could she reveal, but a man true as steel 

That oft for his country had bled ; 
And the glance of his eye might the grim king 
defy 
For despair, fear, and trembling had fled. 

But in rage he had struck a well-merited blow 

At a tyrant who held him in scorn ; 
And his fate soon was sealed, for alas ! honest Joe 

Was to die on the following morn. 
Oh ! sad was the thought to a man that had fought 

'Mid the ranks of the gallant and brave. 
To be shot through the breast at a coward's behest, 

And laid low in a criminal's grave ! 

The night call had sounded, when Joe was aroused 

By a step at the door of his cell ; 
'Twas a comrade with whom he had often caroused; 
• That now entered to bid him farewell. 
" Ah ! Tom, is it you come to bid me adieu ? 

'Tis kind, my lad ; give me your hand ! 
Nay, —nay, — don't get wild, man, and make me 

a child ! — - 
i r 11 be soon in a happier land.'' 

With hands clasped in silence, Tom mournfully 
said, 



"Have you any request, Joe, to make? — 
Remember by me 'twill be fully obeyed : 

Can I anything do for your sake ? ' ' 
** When it's over to-morrow," he said, filled \r\^h 
sorrow, 
''Send this token to her whom I've sworn 
All my fond love to share i " — 'Twas a lock of 
his hair. 
And a prayer-book, all faded and worn. 

''Here's this watch (ox my mother; and when 
you write home," — 
And he dashed a bright tear from his eye — 
" Say I died with my heart in old Devonshire, Tom, 

Like a man and a soldier !— Good-by ! ' ' 
Then the sergeant on guard at the grating ap^ 
peared. 
And poor Tom had to leave the cold cell, 
By the moon's glim'ring light, with a husky 
" Good-night ! 
God be with you, dear comrade, — farewell ! *^ 

Gray dawned the morn in a dull, cloudy sky 

When the blast of a bugle resounded. 
And Joe, ever fearless, went forward to die, 

By the hearts of true heroes surrounded. 
" Shoulder arms ! " was the cry as the prisone 
passed by ; 

" To the right-about — march ! ' ' was the word;] 
And their pale faces proved how their comrade 
was loved. 

And by all his brave regiment adored* 




THE SICK CHILD. 

(Suggestion For Tableau.) 
*' Jessie tired, mamma; good-night, papa; Jessie see yoU 



in the morning. 





^ 




1 




1 




^*'- "^ 


^ JHVfflHM 


^r* 




P-- 




i 




P 



AN OLD TIME TEA 

(Suggestion for Tableau) 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIO] 



light onward they marched to the dread field of 

doom; 
Sternly silent they covered the groimd ; 
Then they formed into line amid sadness and 
gloom, 
While the prisoner looked calmly around. 
Then soft on the air rose the accents of prayer 

And faint tolled the solemn death-bell, 
As he knelt on the sand, and with uplifted hand. 
Waved the long and the lasting farewell. 

' ' Make ready ! ' ' exclaimed an imperious voice ; 

*' Present ! " — struck a chill on each mind ; 
Ere the last word was spoke, Joe had cause to 
rejoice. 
For ''Hold! — Hold!" cried a voice from 
behind. 
Then wild was the joy of them all, man and boy, 



As a horseman cried, ''Mercy ! — Forbear ! " 
With a thrilling "Hurrah! — a free pardon!-— 
'Huzzah!" 
And the mUskets rang loud in the air. 

Soon the comrades were locked in each other'p 
embrace ; 
No more stood the brave soldiers dumb : 
With a loud cheer, they wheeled to the right 

about-face, 
Then away at the sound of the drum ! 
And a brighter day dawned in sweet Devon's fair 
land. 
Where the lovers met never to part ; 
And he gave her a token — true, warm, and un- 
broken — 
The gift of his own gallant heart. 

James Smith. 



AFTER TWENTY YEARS. 



^T^HE coffin was a plain one — a poor miser- 
^§) able pine coffin. One flower on the top ; 
no lining of white satin for the pale brow ; 
no smooth ribbons about the coarse shroud. 
The brown hair was laid decently back, but 
there was no primped cap with the tie beneath 
the chin. The sufferer of cruel poverty smiled 
in her sleep; she had found bread, rest and 
health. 

" I want to see my mother," sobbed a poor 
little child, as the undertaker screwed down the 
top. 

"You cannot ; get out of my way, boy ; why 
does not someone take the brat ? ' ' 

"Only let me see one minute!" cried the 
orphan, clutching the side of the charity box, as 
he gazed upon the coffin, agonized tears stream- 
ing down the cheeks on which the childish bloom 
ever lingered. Oh ! it was painful to hear him 
cry the words: "Only once; let me see my 
mother, only once ! ' ' 

Quickly and brutally the heartless monster 
struck the boy away, so that he reeled v/ith the 
blow. For a moment the boy stood panting 
with grief and rage — ^his blue eyes distended, 



his lips sprang apart, fire glistened through his 
eyes as he raised his little arm with a most un- 
childish laugh, and screamed: "When I'm a 
man I'll be revenged for that ! " 

There was a coffin and a heap of earth between 
the mother and the poor forsaken child — sl monu- 
ment much stronger than granite, built in the 
boy's heart, the memory of the heartless deed. 

The court house was crowded to suffocation. 

"Does any one appear as this man's coun- 
sel?" asked the judge. 

There was a silence when he had finished, 
until, with lips tightly pressed together, a look 
of strange intelligence, blended with haughty 
reserve on his handsome features, a young man 
stepped forward with a firm tread and a kindly 
eye to plead for the friendless one. He was a 
stranger, but at the first sentence there was a 
silence. The splendor of his genius entranced' 
— convinced. 

The man who could not find a friend was 
acquitted. 

"May God bless you, sir; I cannot!" he 
exclaimed. 

"I want no thanks," replied the stranger. 



^8 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



'*I-^I — I — ^believe you are unknown to me." 

*'Sir, I will refresh your memory. Twenty 
years ago this day you struck a broken-hearted 
iittle boy away from his mother's coffin. I was 
that boy." 

The man turned pale. 

"Have you rescued me then to take my life?" 



^*No j I have a sweeter revenge. I have ^.aved 
the life of a man whose brutal conduct has raiikled 
in my breast for the last twenty years. Go, chen, 
and remember the tears of a friendless cl xid." 

The man bowed his head in shame, and vvent 
from the presence of magnanimity — ^as grand to 
him as it was incomprehensible. 



SCOTT AND THE VETERAN. 



I 



/^N old and crippled veteran to the War De- 
fJ partment came, 

J He sought the Chief who led him on 

many a jfield of fame — 
The chief who shouted *^ Forward! " where'er 

his banner rose. 
And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying 
foes. 

-*Have you forgotten. General," the battered 

soldier cried, 
"The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when I 

was at your side ? 
Have you forgotten Johnson, who fought at 

Lundy's Lane ? # 

'Tit true, I'm old and pensioned, but I want to 

fight again." 

**Have I forgotten?" said the chief, "my 

brave old soldier, no ! 
And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it 

tell you so ; 
But you have done your share, my friend; 

you're crippled, old and gray, 
And we have need of younger arms and fresher 

blood to-day." 

"But, General," cried the veteran, a flush upon 

his brow, 
"The very men who fought with us, they say 

are traitors now ; 
They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, our old 

red, white and blue. 
And while a drop of blood is left, J'" sho-^-*" 

that drop is true. 



"I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a 

good old gun. 
To get the range of traitor's hearts, and prick 

them, one by one. 
Your minie rifles and such arms, it ain't worth 

while to try ; 
I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep 

my powder dry ! " 

*'*God bless you, comrade!" said the chief, 

* * God bless your loyal heart ! 
But younger men are in the field, and claim tc» 

have a part ; 
They'll plant our sacred banner firm in each 

rebellious 'town. 
And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to 

pull it down ! ' ' 

"But, General," — ^still persisting, the weeping 

veteran cried, 
"I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're 

my guide ; 
And some, you know, must bite the dust, and 

that, at least, can I ; 
So give the young ones place to fight, but me a 

place to die ! 

" If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel 

in command 
Put me upon the rampart yntli the flag-stafl" ip 

my hand : 
No odds how hot the cannon-v»i.oke, or how the 

shell may fly, 
I"' hold the stars and stripes aloft, and hold 

them tiU I die I 



J 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



7S 



''I'm ready, General; so you let a post to me 

be given, 
Where Washington can look at me as he looks 

down from heaven. 
And say to Putnam at his side, or, maybe, 

General Wayne, — 
'There stands old Billy Johnson, who fought at 

Lundy's Lane.' 



''And when the fight is raging hot, before the 

traitors fly, 
When shell and ball are screeching, and bursting 

in the sky. 
If any shot should pierce through me, and lay 

me on my face, 
My soul would go to Washington's and not to 

Arnold's place." Bayard Taylor. 



MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 



3^ LOOKED far back into other years, and 
(B lo ! in bright array, 

i saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages 
passed away. 
It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty 

walls. 
And gardens with tneir broad green walks, where 

soft the footstep falls ; 
And o'er the antique dial stone the creeping 

shadow passed. 
And all around, the noonday sun a drowsy radi- 
ance cast. 
No sound of busy life was heard, save from the 

cloisters dim. 
The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' 

holy hymn. 
And there five noble maidens sat beneath the 

orchard trees. 
In thai first budding spring of youth, when all 

its prospects please ; 
And little recked they, when they sang, or knelt 

at vesper prayers. 
That Scotland knew no prouder names, held 

none more dear than theirs; 
And little even the loveliest thought, before the 

holy shrine. 
Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient 

Stuart line ! 
Calmly her happy days flew on. uncounted in 

their flight, 
And as they flew, they left behind ? long-con- 
tinuing light. 

I Xhe scene was changed. It was the court, the 
gay court of Bourbon, 



And 'neath a thousand silver lamps a thousand 

courtiers throng ; 
And proudly kindles Henry's eye — well pleased, 

I ween, to see 
The land assemble all its wealth of grace and 

chivalry ; 
But fairer far than all the rest who bask on foK 

tune's tide. 
Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new- 

rnade bride t 
The homage of a thousand hearts — the fond deep 

love of one — 
The hopes that dance around a life whose chaims 

are but begun — 
They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle 

o'er her cheek. 
They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled 

joy bespeak ; 
Ah I who shall blame, if scarce that day, through 

all its brilliant hours. 
She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sun- 
shine and its flowers ? 

The scene was chanp^ed. It was a bark that 
slowly held its way. 

And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light 
of evening lay ; 

And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tea/ 
ful eyes 

Upon the fast-receding hills, that dim and dis- 
tant rise. 

No marvel that the lady wept — there was no land 
on earth 

She loved like that dear land, although she owed 
it not her birth ; 



80 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



It was her mother's land, the land of childhood 

and of friends — 
It was the land where she had found for all her 

griefs amends — 
The land where her dead husband slept — the 

land where she had known 
The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the 

splendors of a throne ; 
No marvel that the lady wept — it was the land of 

France — 
The chosen home of chivalry, the garden of 

romance ! 
The past was bright, like those fair hills so far 

beyond her bark ; 
The future, like the gathering night, was omin- 
ous and dark ! 
One gaze again — one long, 'last gaze — "Adieu, 

fair France, to thee ! " 
The breeze comes forth— she is alone on the 

imconscious sea I 



The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw 

and surly mood. 
And in a turret chamber high of ancient Holy- 
rood 
Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with 

the winds. 
That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's 

uncertain minds. 
The touch of care had blanched her cheek,-^-her 

smile was sadder now, 
The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on 

her brow ; 
And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to 

the field ; 
The Stuart Scepter well she swayed, but the 

Sword she could not wield. 
She thought of all her blighted hopes — the 

dreams of youth's brief day. 
And summoned Rizzio with his lute, and bade 

the minstrel play 
The songs she loved in early years — the songs of 

gay Navarre, 
The songs, perchance, that erst were su"?' by 

gallant Chatelai 3 



They half beguiled her of her cares, they sootheO 

her into smiles, 
They won her thoughts from bigo/: zeal, and 

fierce domestic broils ; 
But hark ! the tramp of armed men ! the Doug' 

las' battle cry ! 
They come, they come I — and lo ! the scowl of 

Ruthven's hollow eye ! 
And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and 

tears and words are vain — 
The rufiian steel is in his heart — the faithful 

Rizzio 's slain ! 
Then Mary dashed aside the tears that trickling 

fell; 
**Now for my father's arm!" she said, "my 

woman's heart, farewell ! " 

The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one 

small lonely isle, 
And there with the prison-walls of its baronial 

pile. 
Stem men stood menacing their Queen, till she 

should stoop to sign 
The traitorous scroll that snatched the crown 

from her ancestral line. 
"My lords, my lords ! " the captive said, "were 

I but once more free, 
With ten good knights on yonder shore, to aid 

my cause and me. 
That parchment would I scatter wide to every 

breeze that blows, 
And once more reign a Stuart Queen o'er my 

remorseless foes ! ' ' 
A red spot burned upon her cheek — streamed 

her rich tresses down. 
She wrote the words — she stood erect — a. queen 

WITHOUT A CROWN ! 

The scene was changed. A royal host a royal 

banner bore, 
And the faithful of the land stood round their 

smiling Queen once more ; 
She stayed her steed upon a hill — she sav/ them 

marching by — 
She heard their shouts — ^she read success in every 

flashing eye. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



81 



The tumult of the strife begins — it roars — it 
dies away ; 

And Mary's troops and banners now, and court- 
iers — where are they ? 

Scattered and strown and flying far, defenseless 
and undone — 

Alas ! to think what she has lost, and all that 
guilt has won ! 

—Away ! away ! thy gallant steed must act no 
laggard's part ; 

Yet vain his speed — for thou dost bear the arrow 
in thy heart ! 

The scene was changed. Beside the block a 

sullen headsman stood, 
And gleamed the broad-axe in his hand, that i^ 

soon must drip with blood. 
With slow and steady step there came a lady 

through the hall, 
And breathless silence chained the lips ci.nd 

touched the heart of all. 
I knew that queenly form again, though blighted 

was its bloom — 
I saw that grief had decked it out — an offering 

for the tomb ! 
I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once 

so brightly shone : 
I knew the voice, though feeble now, that 

thrilled with every tone. 
I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads 

of living gold ; 
I knew that bounding grace of step — that sym- 
metry of mould ! 



Even now I see her far away, in that calm con- 
vent aisle, 

I hear her chant her vesper hymn, I mark her 
holy smile — 

Even now I see her bursting forth, upon the 
bridal mom, 

A new star in the firmament, to light and glor) 
bom ! 

Alas ! the change ! — she placed her foot upon a 
triple throne. 

And on the scaffold now she stands — beside the 

block ALONE ! 

'Tie little dog that licks her hand — the last of all 

the crowd 
That sunned themselves beneath her glance, and 

round her footsteps bowed ! 

— Her neck is bared — the blow is struck — ^the 

soul has passed away ! 
The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece 

of clay ! 
The dog is moaning piteously ; and, as it gur- 
gles o'er. 
Laps the warm blood that trickling runs un*. 

heeded to the floor ! 
The blood of beauty, wealth and power — the 

heart blood of a Queen — 
The noblest of the Stuart race — the fairest earth 

has seen — 
Lapped by a dog ! Go, think of it, in silence 

and alone ; 
Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of 

a throne ! 

H. G. Bell. 



THE FIREMAN. 



'HE city slumbers. O'er its mighty walls 
Night's dusky mantle, soft and silent falls; 
Sleep o'er the world slow waves its wand 
of lead, 
And ready torpors wrap each sinking head. 
Stilled is the stir of labor and of Hfe; 
Hushed is the hum, and tranquilized the strife. 
Man is at rest, with all his hopes and fears ; 
The young forget their sports, the old their cares ; 
6 



The grave are careless; those who joy or weep 
All rest contented on the arm of sleep. 

Sweet is the pillowed rest of beauty now. 
And slumber smiles upon her tranquil brow ; 
Her bright dreams lead her to the moonlit tide, 
Her heart's own partner wandering by her side ; 
'Tis summer's eve; the soft gales scarcely rouse 
The low-voiced ripple and the rustling boughs; 



82 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



And, faint and far, some minstiers melting tone 
Breathes to her heart a music like its own. 

When, hark ! O horror ! what a crash is there ! 
What shriek is that which fills the midnight air? 
' Tis fire ! ' tis fire ! She wakes to dream no more ; 
The hot blast rushes through the blazing door; 
^fXhe dun smoke eddies round: and, hark! that 

cry: 
^'Help! help! Will nooneaid? Idle, Idie!" 
She seeks the casement; shuddering at its height 
She turns again; the fierce flames mock her 

flight; 
Along the crackling stairs they fiercely play, 
And roar, exulting, as they seize their prey. 
**Help! help! Will no one come?" She can 

no more, 
But, pale and breathless, sinks upon the floor. 

Will no one save thee? Yes, there yet is one 
Remains to save, when hope itself is gone i 



When all have fled, when all but him would fly. 

The fireman comes, to rescue or to die. 

He mounts the stair, — ;it wavers 'neath his 

tread ; 
He seeks the room, flames flashing round his 

head; 
He bursts the door; he lifts her prostrate frame, 
And turns again to brave the raging flame. 
The fire-blast smites him with its stifling breath; 
The falling timbers menace him with death; 
The sinking floors his hurried step betray; 
And ruin crashes round his desperate way; 
Hot smoke obscures, ten thousand cinders rise. 
Yet still he staggers forward with his prize ; 
He leaps from burning stair to stair. On ! on ! 
Courage ! One effort more, and all is won ! 
The stair is passed, — the blazing hall is braved; 
Still on ! yet on ! once more ! Thank Heaven^ 

she's saved! 

Robert T. Conrad. 



THE BURNING SHIP, 

[Rapid rate, full force. They are also passages for special pitch. " Fire" should be uttered with explosive force.) 



HE storm o'er the ocean flew furious and 
fast. 
And the waves rose in foam at the voice 
of the blast. 
And heavily labored the gale-beaten ship. 
Like a stout hearted swimmer, the spray at his 

lip; 
And dark was the sky o'er the mariner's path. 
Save when the wild lightning illumined in wrath, 
A young mother knelt in the cabin below. 
And pressing her babe to her bosom of snow. 
She prayed to her God, 'mid he hurricane wild, 
*^0 Father, have mercy, look down on my 
child!" 

It passed — the fierce whirlwind careered on its 

way. 
And the ship like an arrow divided the spray ; 
Her sails glimmered white in the beams of the 

moon. 
And the wind up aloft seemed to whistle a tune 

— to whistle a tune. 



There was joy in the ship as she furrowed the 

foam^ 
For fond hearts within her were dreaming of 

home. 
The young mother pressed her fond babe to her 

breast. 
And the husband sat cheerily down by her side, 
And looked with delight on the face of his bride. 
^ * Oh, happy, ' ' said he, ^ ' when our roaming is 

o'er. 
We'll dwell in our cottage that stands by the 

shore. 
Already in fancy its roof I descry. 
And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky ; 
Its garden so green, and its vine-covered wall ; 
The kind friends awaiting to welcome us all, 
And the children that sport by the old oaken 

tree." 

Ah gently the ship glided over the sea ! 
Hark "i what was that ? Hark ! Hark to the 
shout ! 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



83 



•*Flre ! " Then a tramp and a rout, and a 

tumult of voices uprose on the air; — 
And the mother knelt down, and the half-spoken 
, prayer, 

.That she offered to God in her agony wild, 
Was, ** Father, have mercy, look down on my 

child!" 
She flew to her husband, she clung to his side, 
i Oh there was her refuge whate'er might betide. 
**Fire ! " ** Fire ! " It was raging above and 

below — 
And the cheeks of the sailors grew pale at the 

sight, 
And their eyes glistened wild in the glare of the 

light. 
'Twas vain o'er the ravage the waters to drip ; 
The pitiless flame was the lord of the ship. 
And the smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher 

and higher. 

**0 God, it is fearful to perish by fire.** 



Alone with destruction, alone on the sea, 

*' Great Father of mercy, our hope is in thee.'* 

Sad at heart and resigned, yet undaunted and 

brave. 
They lowered the boat, a mere speck on the wave. 
First entered the mother, enfolding her child : 
It knew she caressed it, looked upward and 

smiled. 
Cold, cold was the night as they drifted away. 
And mistily dawned o'er the pathway the day — 
And they prayed for the light, and at noontide 

about. 
The sun o'er the waters shone joyously out. 

*'FIo ! a sail ! Ho ! a sail ! " cried the man at 

the lea, 
"Ho ! a sail ! " and they turned their glad eyes 

o'er the sea. 
"They see us, they see us, the signal is waved ! 
They bear down upon us, they bear down upon us : 

Huzza ! we are saved. ' ' 



BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL. 



fT was a starry night in June, the air was soft 
and still. 
When the "minute men" from Cambridge 
came, and gathered on the hill ; ■ 
Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us 

frowned the fleet ; 
But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within 

our bosoms beat, 
I And every heart rose high with hope, as fear- 
I lessly we said, 

** We will be numbered with the free, or num- 
bered with the dead." 

'** Bring out the line to mark the trench, and 

I stretch it on the sward ; " 

I Hie trench is marked, the tools are brought, we 

utter not a word. 
But stack our guns, then fall to work with mat- 
tock and with spade, — 
h thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a 
sound is made. 



So still were we the stars beneath that scarce a 

whisper fell ; 
We heard the red-coat's musket-click^ and heard 

him cry "All's well! " 

And here and there a twinkling port, reflected 
on the deep. 

In many a wavy shadow showed their sullen guns 
asleep. 

Sleep on, ye bloody, hireling crew ! In careless 
slumber lie ! 

The trench is growing broad and deep, the breast- 
work broad and high. 

No striplings we, but bear the arms that held the 
French in check. 

The drum that beat at Louisburg and thundered 
in Quebec. 



And thou whose promise is deceit, no more thy 
word we'll trust; 






84 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



Thou butcher Gage, thy power and thee we'll 

humble in the dust ; 
Thou fmd thy tory minister have boasted to thy 

brood, 
*' The lintels of the faithful shall be sprinkled 

with our blood. ' ' 
But though these walls those lintels be, thy zeal 

is all in vain, — 
A thousand freeman shall rise up for every free- 
man slain ! 
And when o'er trampled crowns and thrones they 

raise the mighty shout. 
This soil their Palestine shall be — their altar 

this redoubt ! 

See how the morn is breaking ! the red is in the 

sky; 
The mist is creeping from the stream that floats 

in silence by ; 
The Lively s hull looms through the fog, and 

they our works have spied. 
For the ruddy flash and round shot part in 

thunder from her side ; 
And the Falcon and the Cerberus make every 

bosom thrill. 
With gun and shell and drum and bell and 

boatswain's whistle shrill. 
But deep and wider grows the trench as spade 

and mattock ply. 
For we have to cope with fearful odds, and the 

time is drawing nigh. 

Up with the pine-tree banner ! Our gallant 
Prescott stands 

Amid the plunging shell and. shot, and plants it 
with his hands j 

Up with the shout ! for Putnam comes upon his 
reeking bay, 

With bloody spur and foamy bit, in haste to join 
the fray ; 

And Pomeroy, with his snow-white hairs, and 
face all flush and sweat, 

"Unscathed by French and Indian, wears a youth- 
ful glory yet. 

But thou, whose soul is glowing in the summer 
of thy years 



Unvanquished Warren, thou — the youngest 

thy peers — 
Wert born, and bred, and shaped and made to 

act a patriot's part. 
And dear to us thy presence is as life-blood to 

the heart. 
Well may you bark, ye British wolves — ^with 

leaders such as they. 
Not one will fail to follow where they choose to 

lead the way ! 
As once before, scarce two months since, we fol- 
lowed on your track. 
And with our rifles marked the road you took ia 

going back / 

Ye slew a sick man in his bed ; ye slew with ^ 

hands accursed ', 

A mother nursing, and her blood fell on the babe '• 

she nursed ; 
By their own doors our kinsmen fell, and 

perished in the strife ; . - 

But as we hold a hireling's cheap, and dear ai 

freeman's life. 
By Tanner-Brook and Lincoln-Bridge, before the 

shut of sun. 
We took the recompense we claimed, — a score 

for every one ! 



Hark ! from the town a trumpet ! The barges 

at the wharf 
Are crowded with the living freight, and now 

they're pushing ofl"; 
With clash and glitter, trump and drum, jn all 

its bright array. 
Behold the splendid sacrifice move slowly o'er 

the bay ! 
And still and still the barges fill, and still across 

the deep, 
Like thunder-clouds along the sky, the hostild 

transports sweep ; 
And now they're forming at the Point, and no 

the lines advance ; 
We see beneath the sultry sun their polished , 

bayonets glance ; 
We hear a-ne«ir the throbbing drum, the bugl 

challenge ring 3 



\ 




:i 1 




PHOTO. BY ^•ORRI£O^I. CHICAGO 

"DO YOU KNOW ME NOW? 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



85 



Quick pursts and loud the flashing cloud, and 
rolls from wing to wing. 

But on the height our bulwark stands, tremend- 
ous in its gloom, 

As sullen as a tropic sky, and silent as a tomb ; 

And so we waited till we saw at scarce ten rifles' 
length 

The old vindictive Saxon spite, in all Us stub- 
bom strength ; 

When sudden, flash on flash, around the jagged 
ramparts burst. 

From every gun the livid light, upon the foe 
accursed. 

Then quailed a monarch's might before a free- 
born people's ire — 
Then drank the sward the veteran's life, where 

swept the yeoman's fire ; 
Then, staggered by the shot, we saw their serried 

columns reel 
And fall, as falls the bearded rye beneath the 

reaper's steel; 
And then arose a mighty shout, that might have 

waked the dead, — 
** Hurrah ! they run — the field is won ! Hurrah ! 

the foe is fled !" 
And every man has dropped his gun to clutch a 

neighbor's hand. 
As his heart keeps praying all the while for home 

and native land. 

Thrice on that day we stood the shock of thrice 
a thousand foes, 



And thrice that day within our lines the shout of 
victory rose ; 

And though our swift fire slackened then, and, 
reddening in the skies, 

We saw from Charlestown's roofs and walls the 
flamy columns rise ; 

Yet while we had a cartridge left we still main- 
tained the fight. 

Nor gained the foe one foot of ground upon that 
blood-stained height. 

What though for us no laurels bloom, nor o'er 

the nameless brave 
No sculptured trophy, scroll, nor hatch, records 

a warrior's grave ? 
What though the day to us was lost ? Upon the 

deathless page 
The everlasting charter stands, for ever land and 

age! 
For man hath broke his felon bonds and cast 

them in the dust. 
And claimed his heritage divine- and justified 

his trust ; 
While through his rifted prison-bars the hues of 

freedom pour, 
O'er every nation, race, and clime, on every sea 

and shore. 
Such glories as the patriarch viewed, when, 'mid 

the darkest skies. 
He saw above the ruined world the bow of 

promise rise. 

Frederick S. Cozzens. 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 



fi 



THOUGHTFUL mind, when it sees a 
nation's flag, sees not the flag only, but 
the nation itself ; and whatever may be 
its symbols, its insignia, he reads chiefly in the 
flag the government, the principles, the truths, 
the history, which belong to the nation that sets 
it forth. 

When the French tricolor rolls out to the 
wind, we see France. When the new-found 
Italian flag is unfurled, we see resurrected Italy. 



When the other three-cornered Hungarian nag 
shall be lifted to the wind, we shall see in it the 
long-buried but never dead principles of Hun- 
garian Hberty. When the united crosses of St. 
Andrew and St. George on a fiery ground set 
forth the banner of Old England, we see not the 
cloth merely ; there rises up before the mind the 
noble aspect of that monarchy, which, more 
than any other on the globe, has advanced its 
banner for liberty, law, and national prosperity. 



86 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS 



This nation has a banner too ; and whenever 
it streamed abroad, men saw daybreak bursting 
on their eyes, for the American flag has been 
the symbol of Hberty, and men rejoiced in it. 
Not. another flag on the globe had such an 
errand, or went forth upon the sea, carrying 
everywhere, the world around, such hope for the 
t:aptive and such glorious tidings. 

The stars upon it were to the pining nations 
like the morning stars of God, and the stripes 
upon it were beams of morning light. 

As at early dawn the stars stand first, and then 
it grows light, and then as the sun advances, 
the light breaks into banks and streaming lines 
of color, the glowing red and intense white 
striving together and ribbing the horizon with 
bars effulgent, so on the American flag, stars and 
beams of many colored light shine out together. 
And wherever the flag comes, and men behold 
it, they see in its sacred emblazonry, no rampant 
lion and fierce eagle, but only light, and every 
fold significant of liberty. 

The history of this banner is all on one side. 
Under it rode Washington and his armies ; before 
it Burgoyne laid down his arms. It waved on 
the highlands at West Point ; it floated over old 
Fort Montgomery. When Arnold would have 
surrendered these valuable fortresses and precious 
legacies, his night was turned into day, and his 
treachery was driven away, by the beams of 
light from this starry banner. 



It cheered our army, driven from New York, 
in their solitary pilgrimage through New Jersey. 
It streamed in light over Valley Forge and Mor- 
ristown. It crossed the waters rolling with ice 
at Trenton ; and when its stars gleamed in the 
cold morning with victory, a new day of hope 
dawned on the despondency of the nation. And 
when, at length, the long years of war were 
drawing to a close, underneath the folds of this 
immortal banner sat Washington while Yorktown 
surrended its hosts, and our Revolutionary strug- 
gles ended with victory. 

Let us then twine each thread of the glorious 
tissue of our country's flag about our heart- 
strings ; and looking upon our homes and catch- 
ing the spirit that breathes upon us from the 
battle-fields of our fathers, let us resolve, come 
weal or woe, we will, in life and in death, now 
and forever, stand by the stars and stripes. 
They have been unfurled from the snows of 
Canada to the plains of New Orleans, in the 
halls of the Montezumas and amid the solitude 
of every sea , and everywhere, as the luminous 
symbol of resistless and beneficent power, they 
have led the brave to victory and to glory. 
They have floated over our cradles ; let it be our 
prayer and our struggle that they shall float over 
our graves. In this consists our hope, and 
without it there can be no future for our nation. 

Henry Ward Beecher. 



I 



THE CIRCUS BOY. 



LEFT the little town behind 
And took the path that led 
Up to the churchyard on the heath. 
The city of the dead. 

In letters plain I found these words 

Upon a cross of wood : 
^'Here lies the little circus boy, 

Who did the best he could." 

So strange I thought this epitaph, 
I asked a farmer's wife, 



Who gladly told me all she knew, 
Of his unhappy life. 

She said : '*The circus came to towa 

A year or so ago. 
And so, my husband and myself, 

We went to see the show. 

*'A hundred clever things we saw. 
That filled us with delight, 

And then when little Dono came 
We clapped with all our might. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



87 



** He climbed up to a ladder top 

And stood upon his head, 
He danced upon a rope so small 

You'd snap it like a thread. 

"At last they brought two horses in. 

And, climbing up in haste, 
As fast they galloped round the track 

One foot on each he placed. 

'^He rode amid the deafening cheers 

Till, on the second round, 
His right foot slipped, and with a shriek 

He fell upon the ground. 

**The manager picked up the boy, 
Whose limbs were sprained and sore > 

He cried, ' You fell off purposely, ' 
And angrily he swore - 

'*'How now,' he said, 'do you suppose 
That you can earn your food ? ' 

The little fellow answered him, 
'I did the best I could.' 



'*The heartless man turned round, when shrieks 

Were heard on every side ; 
'The tiger's loose — the tiger's loose ! * 

They horror-stricken cried. 

"He looked, right in the tiger's path. 

There sat his little child. 
And, as the tiger crouched to spring, 

Looked round in terror wild. 

"'O God ! Oh, save my child,' he cried, 

When, springing to his feet. 
Young Dono rushed upon the beast. 

An awful death to meet. 

"The child was saved, then shots were heard. 

The angry beast was dead. 
They picked poor Dono up all cut 

And torn from foot U head. 

" 'How brave,' the weeping father said, 

* How generous and good ! ' 
And dying Dono answered him, 
a did the best I could.' " 

A. A. VivYAN Thomson. 



THE GRANGER'S WIFE. 



KNOW V hat it is to live in a cabin— a httle 
log cabin, hid under the trees,— 
And feel the long days pass away in the 
kitchen, with hardly a chance for enjoy- 
ment and ease. 



I know what it is to rise in the morning at five, 

or soon after, the milking to do, 
And all through the day, free from frolic or 

laughter, to attend to my knitting or 

spinning for you. 
I know what it is to wait at the noonday my 

husband's return from a newly cleared 

field; 
And when he related how much it wcuh' pay 

him I was happy and proud at the thought 

of such yield. 



I know what it is to struggle with care, — to keep 

a warm hearth when the world looked so 

cold, — 
And often in life I have asked it in prayer that 

time would return us some blessings when 

old. 



I know what it is, when the wolf at the door 
howled grimly and loudly for bread, 

To live upon meal till the 7?ieai was no mere, 
then use something coarser instead. 

I know what it is on a hot summer day to work 

like a ma7i in the sun, 
In gathering grain, or unloading the hay, and 

holding on late, till 'twas done. 



8S 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



I know what it is when our best years are past 
to move from a cabin and live 

A few pleasant days in more modern ways; -- 
but my life is a half-empty sieve. 

It seems like a dream in waking, a gleam of hap- 
piness covered with care, 

How much of its joy is mixed with alloy; how 
little remains to my share ! 

I know what it is to have looked on my life as a 

rainbow of beautiful hue. 
When the future of love, like the angels above, 

was painted so holy and true. 

When a girl with my mother, I foretold my fate, 
and wondered how else it could be 

Than a garden of ease, to live and to please, and 
to have everybody please me. 

I know what it is to have married a youth that I 
loved for his heart and his face ; 

To have seen him work on till the battle was won 
and poverty yielded to place. 

I know what it is to see people grow rich and 
abundantly prosper in life ; — 



But I've noticed the man wiio gets fich as he 
can, too often neglects his own wife. 

I know what you mean by office and place,— by 
position, and profit, and trust; 

But I learned, long ago, that I'f's sorrow to know,^ 
for they drag a man down in the dust ! 

And when I look back on my girlhood once more 

the journey of life to review. 
My happiest days were in the sun's blaze, when 

I was so busy with you. 

To be sure I am old; but my heart is not cold, — 
I'd ^ee our dear children do more; 

I'd lift up a land more noble and grand tnan 
nations have known heretofore ! 

Away with deceit ! and let us all meet as brothers, 

so free and content, 
And all through the earth let's honor real worth, 

and save many millions misspent ! 

As mothers of toil, who helped clear the soil, I 
feel that our mission and range 

Will be brought into play in a wonderful way to 
build up the power of the grange. 

J. W. Donovan. 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



IFE is what we make it. To some, this 
may appear to be a very singular, if not 
extravagant statement. You look upon 
this life and upon this world, and you derive 
from them, it may be, a very different impression. 
You see the earth perhaps, only as a collection 
of blind, obdurate, inexorable elements and 
powers. You look upon the mountains that 
stand fast forever ; you look upon the seas that 
roll upon every shore their ceaseless tides ; you 
walk through the annual round of the seasons ; 
all things seem to be fixed, — summer and 
winter, seed-time and harvest, growth and decay, 
— ^and so they are. 

But does not the mind spread its own hue 



over all these scenes.? Does not the cheerful 
man make a cheerful world ? Does not the sor- 
rowing man make a gloomy world ? Does not 
every mind make its own world ? Does it not, 
as if indeed a portion of the Divinity were im- 
parted to it, almost create the scene around it ? 
Its power, in fact, scarcely falls short of the 
theory of those philosophers, who have supposed 
that the world had no existence at all, but in our 
own minds. 

So again with regard to human life ;— it seems 
to many, probably, unconscious as they are of 
the mental and moral powers which control it, 
as if it were made up of fixed conditions, and 
of immense and impassable distinctions. But 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



89 



apon all conditions presses down one impartial 
law. To all situations, to all fortunes, high or 
low, the mind gives their character. They are 
in effect, not what they are in themselves, but 
what they are to the feelings of their possessors. 

The king upon his throne and amidst his 
30urt, may be a mean, degraded, miserable 
man ; a slave to ambition, to voluptuousnesSj to 
fear, to every low passion. The peasant in his 
cottage, may be the real monarch, — the moral 
master of his fate, — the free and lofty being, 
more than a prince in his happiness, more than 

king in honor. And shall the mere names 
which these men bear, blind us to the actual 
position which they occupy amidst God's crea- 
tion ? No : beneath the all-powerful law of the 
heart, the master is often the slave ; and the 
slave is the master. 

It is the same creation, upon which the eyes 
of the cheerful and the melancholy man are 
fixed ; yet how different are the aspects which it 
bears to them ! To the one it is all beauty and 
gladness ; '' the waves A tLe ocean roll in light, 
and the mountains are covered with day." It 
seems to him as if life went forth, rejoicing upon 
/very bright wave, and every shining bough, 



shaken in the breeze. It seems as if there were 
more than the eye seeth ; a presence of deep joy 
among the hills and the valleys, and upon the 
bright waters. 

But the gloomy man, stricken and sad at heart, 
stands idly or mournfully gazing at the same 
scene, and what is it to him? The very light, — 

" Bright effluence of bright essence increate," 

yea, the very light seems to him as a leaden pal* 
thrown over the face of nature. All thing? 
wear to his eye a dull, dim, and sickly aspect. 
The great train of the seasons is passing before 
him, but he sighs and turns away, as if i<- were 
the train of a funeral procession 5 and he won 
ders within himself at the poetic representation^ 
and sentimental rhapsodicrf that are lavished upoi? 
a world so utterly mioeiable. 

Here then, are two different worlds, in which 
these two classes, of beings live ; and they are 
formed and made what they are, out of the very 
same scene, only by different states of mind in 
the beholders. The eye maketh that which it 
looks upon. The ear maketh its own melodies 
or discords. The world without reflects the 
world within. Orville Dewey. 



A STRAY CHILD. 






>^HE chill November day was done, 
t)j The working world home faring ; 
The wind came roaring through the streets 
And set the gas-lights flaring ; 
And hopelessly and aimlessly 

The scared old leaves were flying ; 
When, mingled with the sighing wind, 
I heard a small voice crying. 

And shivering on the comer stood 

A child of four, or over ; 
No cloak or hat her small, soft arms. 

And wind blown curls to cover. 
Her dimpled face was stained with tears ; 

Her round blue eyes ran over ; 
She cherished in her wee, cold hand, 

A bunch of faded clover. 



And one hand roand her treasure while 

She slipped in mine the other ; 
Half scared, half confidential, said, 

'*0h ! please, I want my mother ! '* 
'*Tell me you street and number, pet: 

Don't cry, I'll take you to it." 
Sobbing she answered, **I forget: 

The organ made me do it. 

**He canie and played at Milly's steps. 

The monkey took the money ; 
And so I followed down the street, 

The monkey was so funny. 
I've walked about a hundred hours. 

From one street to another : 
The monkey's gone, I've spoiled my flowexi^ 

Oh 1 please, I want my mother." 



90 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



*'But what's your mother's name? and what 

The street ? Now think a minute. ' ' 
''My mother's name is mamma dear-- 

The street — I can't begin it." 
*'But what is strange about the house. 

Or new — not like the others ? ' ' 
*'I guess you mean my trundle bed, 

Mine and my little brother's. 

*' Oh dear ! I ought to be at home 

To help him say his prayers,^ 
He's such a baby he forgets ; 

And we are both such players ;— 
And there's a bar to keep us both 

From pitching on each other, 
For Harry rolls when he's asleep : 

Oh dear ! I want my mother.'* 



The sky grew stormy ; people passe( 

All muffled, homeward faring : 
'*You will have to spend the night with mes" 

I said at last despairing. 
I tied a kerchief round her neck- - 

"What ribbon's this, my blossom? '* 
*'Why don't you know?" she smiling said, 

And drew it from her bosom. 

A card with number, street, and name -, 

My eyes astonished met it ; 
'*For," said the little one, "you see 

I might sometimes forget it : 
And so I wear a little thing 

That tells you all about it ; 
For mother says she's very sure 

I should get lost without it. ' * 

Eliza Sproat Turner. 



THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS. 



f'VE been among the mighty Alps, and wan- 
dered through their vales, 
And heard the honest mountaineers relate their 
dismal tales. 
As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their 

daily work was o'er. 
They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er 
were heard of more. 

For some had gone with daring foot, the craggy 

peaks to gain. 
Until they seemed like hazy specks, to gazers on 

the plain ; 
But in a fathomless abyss an icy grave they found. 
Or were crushed beneath the avalanche that 

starts at human sound : 

And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of 

fear, — 
A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers 

might not hear; 
The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice 

was tremulous ; 
But wiping all those tears away, he told his 

story thus: 



-''It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous 

vulture dwells. 
Who never fattens on the prey, which from afar 

he smells, 
But patient, watching hour on hour, upon a lofty 

rock, 
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from 

the flock. 

'*One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the suQ 

was rising high. 
When, from my children on the green, I heard a 

fearful cry. 
As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of 

grief and pain, 
A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear 

again. 

''I hurried out to learn the cause; but ovei» 

whelmed with fright. 
The children never ceased to shriek ; and from 

my frenzied sight 
I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling 

of my care ; — 
But something caught my searching eyes, sIoMf 

sailing through the air. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



91 



«^ Oh ! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's 

eye, 
His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to 

descry ; 
And know, with agonizing breast, and with a 

maniac rave. 
That earthly power could not avail that innocent 

t<^ save ! 

^'My infant stretched his little hands imploringly 

to me, 
And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly, 

to get free : 
At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he 

shrieked and screamed ! 
Until upon the azure sky a lessening spot they 

seemed. 

"The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though 
heavily he flew ; 

A mote upon the sun's broad face, he seemed 
unto my view. 

But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he 
would alight, — 

'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had van- 
ished quite. 



"All search was vain, and years had pjxssed ; 

that child was ne'er forgot. 
When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty 

spot, 
From whence upon a rugged crag the chamois 

never reached, 
He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements 

had bleached ! 

"I clambered up that rugged cliff — I could not 
stay away, — 

I knew they were my infant's bones thus hasten- 
ing to decay ; 

A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to 
many a shred : 

The crimson cap he wore that morn was still 
upon his head. ' ' 

That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers, 
passing by. 

Who often stand, and musing gaze, nor go with- 
out a sigh ; 

And as I journeyed, the next morn, along the 
sunny way, 

The precipice was shown to me, whereon the 
infant lay. 



THF PROGRESS OF HUMANITY, 



f(^ ET us, then, be of good cheer. From the 
y^ great law of progress we may derive at 
once our duties and our encouragements. 
Humanity has ever advanced, urged by the 
instincts and necessities implanted by God, — 
thwarted sometimes by obstacles which have 
caused it for a time — a moment only, in the im- 
mensity of ages — to deviate from its true line, 
or to seem to retreat, — but still ever onward. 

Amidst the disappointments which may attend 
individual exertions, amidst the universal agita- 
tions which now surround us, let us recognize 
this law, confident that whatever is just, what- 
ever is iaumane, whatever is good, whatever is 
true, according to an immutable ordinance of 
Providence, in the golden light of the future, 
must prevail. With this faith, let us place our 



hands, as those of little children, ?n the great 
hand of God. He will ever guide and sustain 
us — through pains and perils, it may be — in the 
path of progress. 

In the recognition of this law, there are 
motives to beneficent activity, which shall endure 
to the last syllable of life. Let the young em- 
brace it : they shall find in it an everliving 
spring. Let the old cherish it still : they shall* 
derive from it fresh encouragement. It shal^ 
give to all, both old and young, a new apprecia- 
tion of their existence, a new sentiment of their 
force, a new revelation of their destiny. 

Be it, then, our duty and our encouragement 
to live and to labor, ever mindful of the future. 
But let us not forget the past. All ages have 
lived and labored for us. From one has come 



92 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



art, from another jurisprudence,* from another 
the compass, from another the printing-press ; 
from all have proceeded priceless lessons of truth 
and virtue. The earliest and most distant 
times are not without a present influence on our 
daily lives. The mighty stream of progress, 
though fed by many tributary waters and hidden 
springs, derives something of its force from the 
earlier currents which - leap and sparkle in the 
distant mountain recesses, over precipices, 
among rapids, and beneath the shade of the 
primeval forest. 

" Nor should we be too impatient to witness 
the fulfillment of our aspirations. The daily 
increasing rapidity of discovery and improve- 
ment, and the daily multiplying efforts of bene- 
ficence, in later years outstripping the imagina- 
tions of the most sanguine, furnish well-grounded 
assurance that the advance of man will be with 
a constantly accelerating speed. The extending 
intercourse among the nations of the earth, and 
among all the children of the human family, 
gives new promises of the complete diffusion of 
truth, penetrating the most distant places, chas- 



ing away the darkness of night, and exposing 
the hideous forms of slavery, of war, of wrong, 
which must be hated as soon as they are clearly 
seen. 

Cultivate then, a just moderation. Learn to 
reconcile order with change, stability with prog- 
ress. This is a wise conservatism ; this is a wise 
reform. Rightly understanding these terms, 
who would not be a conservative? who 'A^ould 
not be a reformer ? — a conservative of all that 
is good, a reformer of all that is evil ; a conser- 
vative of knowledge, a reformer of ignorance ; a 
conservative of truths and principles whose seat 
is the bosom of God, a reformer of laws and in- 
stitutions which are but the wicked or imperfect 
work of man ; a conservative of that divine ^ 
order which is found only in movement, a 
reformer of those earthly wrongs and abuses 
which spring from a violation of the great law 
of human progress. Blending these two char- 
acters in one, let us seek to be, at the same 
time, Reforming Conservatives, and Con- 
servative REFf)RMERS. 

Charles Sumner, j 



■TWO LOVES AND A LIFE. 



*0 the scaffold's foot she came. 

Leaped her black eyes into flame, 
Rose and fell her panting breast,— 
There a pardon closely pressed. 

She had heard her lover's doom, 
Traitor death and shameful tomb,—- 
Heard the price upon his head, 
''I will save him," she had said. 

*' Blue-eyed Annie loves him, too. 
She will weep, but Ruth will do; 
Who should save him, sore distressed, 
Who but she who loves him best ? ' ' 

To the scaffold now she came, 
On her lips there rose his name,— 
Rose, and yet in silence died, — 
Annie nestled by his side. 



Over Annie's face he bent, 
Round her waist his fingers went ; 
**Wife " he called her— called /ler **wife! '* 
Simple word to cost a life ! 

In Ruth's breast the pardon lay; 
But she coldly turned away : — 
'*He has sealed his traitor fate, 
I can love, and I can hate. ' ' 

* 'Annie is his wife," they said. 
''Be it wife, then, to the dead; 
Since the dying she will mate : 
I can love, and I can hate ! ' ' 

"What their sin ? They do but love ; 
Let this thought thy bosom move.** ; 

Came the jealous answer straight,— 
** I can love, and I can hate ! '* 



i 




SOCIETY IS QUICK TO TRACK 
THK MAGIC OF A PLEASING FACE 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



93 



"Mercy ! " still they cried. But she : 
'* Who has mercy upon me ? 
Who ? My life is desolate — 
I can love, and I can hate ! " 

From the scaffold stairs she went, 
Shouts the noonday silence rent, 
All the air was quick with cries, — 
"See the traitor ! see, he dies ! " 

Back she looked, with stifled scream, 
Saw the axe upswinging gleam : 
All her woman's anger died, — 
"From the king ! " she faintly cried- 



"From the king. His name — ^behold ! *' 
Quick the parchment she unrolled : 
Paused the axe in upward swing — 
"He is pardoned ! " *'Live the king ! ** 

Glad the cry, and loud and long : 
All about the scaffold throng, — 
There entwining, fold in fold, 
Raven tresses, locks of gold. 

There against Ruth's tortured breast 
Annie's tearful face is pressed. 
While the white lips murmuring move — 
" I can hate— -but I can love ! " 

William Sawyer. 



1 



A JUDGE'S TEMPERANCE LECTURE. 

At Morris, Grundy county, niinois, three saloon keeper?— one woman and two men — were arrested and indicted for selling 
liquor to minors. As usual in such cases, the liquor sellers were lavish of their funds in aid of their unfortunate co-workers, 
and eminent counsel was employed in defense of these destroyers of the bodies and souls of the young and rising generation. 
But the proof of their gfuilt was so fully demonstrated that the jury was compelled to pronounce them guilty. Hon, J. N. 
/leading, the presiding Judge, in pronouncing the sentence of the court, used the following language : 



^HE jury having found you guilty of selling 
intoxicating liquors to a minor, it re- 
mains for the court to pronounce the sen- 
tence of the law. The penalty of this offence, 
fixed by the Legislature, indicates that it con- 
sidered the crime to be of a serious character. 
By the law you may sell to men and to women if 
they will buy. You have given your bond and 
paid for your license to sell to them, and no one 
has the right to molest you in your legal business. 
No matter what the consequences may be, no 
matter what poverty and destitution are produced 
by selling according to law, you have paid your 
money for this privilege, and you are licensed to 
pursue your calling. No matter what families 
are distracted and rendered miserable, no matter 
what wives are treated with violence, what 
children starve, or mourn over the degradation 
of a parent, your business is legalized and no one 
may interfere with you in it. No matter what 
mother may agonize over the loss of a son or 
sister blush for. the shame of a brother, you have 
the right to disregard them all and pursue your 
legal calling ; you are licensed. 

You can fit up your lawful place of business 



in the most enticing and captivating form ; you 
can furnish it with the most elegant and costly 
equipments for your lawful trade ; you may fill 
it with the allurements to amusements ; you 
may use all your arts to induce visitors; ycu 
may skillfully arrange and expose to view your 
choice wines and most captivating beverages ; 
you may then induce thirst by all contrivances 
to produce a raging appetite for drink ; and then 
you may supply that appetite to the full — ^because 
it is lawful ; you have a license. 

You may allow boys, almost children, to fre- 
quent your saloon ; they may witness the appar- 
ent satisfaction with which their seniors quaff 
the sparkling glass ; you may be schooling and 
training them for the period of twenty-one, 
when they too can participate, for all this is 
lawful. You may hold the cup to their very Hps; 
but you must not let them drink — that is unlawful. 
But, while you have all these privileges for the 
money which you pay, this poor privilege of sell- 
ing to children is denied you. 

Here parents have the right to say, ''Leave 
my son to me until the law gives you the right 
to destroy him ! Do not anticipate that terrible 




94 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



moment when I can assert for him no further 
rights of protection ! That will be soon enough 
for me, for his mother, for his sisters, for his 
friends, and for the community, to see him take 
his road to death. Give him to us in his child- 
hood, at least ! Let us have a few years of his 
young life, in which we may enjoy his innocence, 
to repay us in some degree for the care and love 
we have lavished upon him ! ' ' 

This is something you, who now stand a pri- 
soner at the bar, have not paid for ; this is not 
embraced in your license. You have your 
"bond" to use in its full extent; but in thus 



taking your *' pound of flesh,'* you draw the 
blood, and that which is nearest the heart. The 
law in its wisdom does not permit this, and you 
must obey the law. By the verdict of the jury, 
you have been found guilty of transgressing the 
law. Its extreme penalty is thirty days' impris- 
onment in the county jail, and ^loo fine; its 
lowest, ten days' imprisonment and ^20 fine. 

For this offence, the court sentences you to 
ten days' imprisonment in the county jail, and 
that you pay a fine of ^75 and the costs, and i 
that you stand committed until the fine and 
costs of this prosecution are paid. 



THE MISER. 



/^N old man sat by a fireless hearth, 
^^:i^ Though the night was dark and chill, 
J And mournfully over the frozen earth 

The wind sobbed loud and shrill.' 
His locks were gray, and his eyes were gray, 

And dim, but not with tears ; 
And his skeleton form had wasted away 
With penury, niore than years. 

A rush-light was casting its fitful glare 

O'er the damp and dingy walls. 
Where the lizard hath made his slimy lair, 

And the venomous spider crawls ; 
But the meanest thing in this lonesome room 

Was the miser worn and bare. 
Where he sat like a ghost in an empty tomb. 

On his broken and only chair. 

He had bolted the window and barred the door. 

And every nook had scanned ; 
And felt the fastening o'er and o'er, 

With his cold and skinny hand ; 
And yet he sat gazing intently round. 

And trembled with silent fear. 
And started and shuddered at every sound 

That fell on his coward ear. 

"Ha, ha.*"" laughed the miser; "I'm safe at 
last, 
From this night so cold and drear. 



From the drenching rain and driving blast. 

With my gold and treasures here. 
I am cold and wet with the icy rain. 

And my health is bad, 'tis true ; 
Yet if I should light that fire again. 

It would cost me a cent or two. 

"But I'll take a sip of the precious wine : 

It will banish my cold and fears : 
\' was given long since by a friend of mine — 

I have kept it for many years, ' ' 
So he drew a flask from, a mouldy nook. 

And drank of its ruby tide ; 
And his eyes grew bright with each draught he 
took 

And his bosom swelled with pride. 

"Let me see: let me see!" said the miser 
then, 

"'Tis some sixty years or more 
Since the happy hour when I began 

To heap up the glittering store ; 
And well have I sped with my anxious toil, 

As my crowded chest will show : 
I've more than would ransom a kingdom's spoils 

Or an emperor could bestow. ' ' 

He turned to an old worm-eaten chest. 
And cautiously raised the lid. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



And then it sLone like the clouds of the west, 
With the sun in their splendor hid : 

And gem after gem, in precious store. 
Is raised with exulting smile / 

And he counted and counted them ^'er and o'er, 
In many a glittering pile. 

i 

Why comes the flush to his pallid brow. 



While his eyes like his diamonds shine ? 
Why writhes he thus in such torture now? 

What was there in the wine ? 
He strove his lonely seat to gain : 

To crawl to his nest he tried ; 
But finding his efforts ail in vain, 

He clasped his gold, and — died. 

George W. Cutter 



TRUE HEROISM. 



ET others write of battles fought. 
Of bloody, ghastly fields. 
Where honor greets the man who wins. 
And death, the man who yields ; 
But I will write of him who fights 

And vanquishes his sins. 
Who struggles on through weary yeaiF 
Against himself^ and wins. 

He is a hero staunch and brave 

Who fights an unseen foe. 
And puts at last beneath his feet 

His passions base and low ; 
Who stands erect in manhood's might 

Undaunted, undismayed, — 
The bravest man who drew a sword 

In foray, or in raid. 



It calls for something more than brawn 

Or muscle to o'ercome 
An enemy who marcheth not 

With banner, plume, and drum— • 
A foe forever lurking nigh. 

With sileijt, stealthy tread ; 
Forever near your board by day. 

At night beside your bed. 

All honor, then, to that brave heart 1 

Though poor or rich he be. 
Who struggles with his better part — 

Who conquers and is free. 
He may not wear a hero's crown. 

Or fill a hero's grave. 
But truth will place his name among 

The bravest of the brave. 



THE BATTLE OF MOROARTEN. 



T^HE wine-month shone in its golden prime, 
W) And the red grapes clustering hung, 

But a deeper sound, through the Switzer's 
clime, 
Than the vintage-music, rung. 
A sound, through vaulted cave, 
A sound, through echoing glen, 
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave j 
— 'Twas the tread of steel-girt men. 



And a trumpet, pealing wild and far, 
'Midst the ancient rocks was blown. 

Till the Alps replied to that voice of war 
With a thousand of their own. 



And through the forest-glooms 
Flashed helmets to the day. 
And the winds were tossing knightly plumea 
Like the larch-boughs in their play. 



In Hash's wilds there was gleaming steel, 

As the host of the Austrian passed. 
And the Schreckhorn's rocks, with a savage peai. 
Made mirth of his clarion's blast. 
Up 'midst the Righi snows 
The stormy march was heard, 
With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks 
rose, 
^*\d the leader's gathering word. 



96 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



But a bano, the noblest band of all, 

Through the rude Morgarten strait, 
With blazoned streamers, and lances tall, 
Moved onwards in princely state. 
They came with heavy chains. 
For the race despised so long — 
But amidst his Alp-domains, 
The herdsman's arm is strong! 

The sun was reddening the clouds of mom 

When they entered the rock defile. 
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 
Their bugles rung the while. 
But on the misty height. 
Where the mountain people stood. 
There was stillness, as of night. 
When storms at distance brood. 

There was stillness, as of deep dead night. 

And a pause — but not of fear. 
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might 
Of hostile shield and spear. 

On wound those columns bright 
Between the lake and wood. 
But they looked not to the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood. 

The pass was filled with their serried power. 

All helmed and mail-arrayed, 
And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower 
In the rustling forest -shade. 

There were prince and crested knight. 
Hemmed in by cliff and flood. 
When a shout arose from the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood. 

And the mighty rocks came bounding down. 

Their startled foes among, 
With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown — 
— Oh? the herdsman's arm is strong ! 
They came like lauwine hurled 
From Alp to Alp in play. 
When the echoes shout through the snowy 
world 
And the pines are borne away. 



The fir-woods crashed on the mountain-side. 

And the Switzers rushed from bign, 
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride 
Of the Austrian chivalry : 
Like hunters of the deer. 
They stormed the narrow dell. 
And first in the shock, with Uri's speai. 
Was the arm of William Tell. 

There was tumult in the crowded strait. 

And a cry of wild dismay, 
And many a warrior met his fate 
From a peasant's hand that day ! 

\nd the empire's banner then ; 

From its place of waving free, i 

Went down before the shepherd-men, ^ 

The men of the Forest-sea. 

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake 

The cuirass and the shield, 
And the war-horse dashed to the reddening lake 
From the reapers of the field ! 
The field — ^but not of sheaves — 
Proud crests and pennons lay. 
Strewn o'er it thick as the birch-wood leaves. 
In the autumn tempest's way. 

Oh ! the sun in heaven fierce havoc viewed. 

When the Austrian turned to fly. 
And the brave, in the trampling multitude. 
Had a fearful death to die ! 
And the leader of the war 
At eve unhelmed was seen. 
With a hurrying step on the wilds afat. 
And a pale and troubled mien. 

But the sons of the land which the freeman tills, 

Went back from the battle toil, 
To their cabin-homes 'midst the deep green hills^ 
All burdened with royal spoil. 
There were songs and festal fires 
On the soaring Alps that night, 
When children sprung to meet their sires 
From the wild Morgarten fight. 

Felicia Hemans. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



m 



A VOYAGE AND A HAVEN. 



J^ SOLITARY ship, in mid-ocean, its white 
L-Sf sail touched by the silver moonbeams 
J which fall beyond them in a wide glit- 

tering track upon the waste of waters. Under 
ihe steel-blue sky, on the restless bosom of the 
beautiful, awful sea, no other object in sight, 
seemingly in existence, but that silent, gliding 
ship; grand, even in its littleness, amid the 
great space; solemn and ghost-like as it moves 
through the booming waves under the steady 
heaven-flooding radiance on high. Save for the 
watch, her decks are solitary, and her human 
freight is below — sleeping for the most part, all 
quiet at least. 

Mary Pemberton is not sleeping; she lies in 
her narrow bed, her child upon her arm, listen- 
ing to the rhythmical rush of the surging waves 
as they go by the ship ; she can see them through 
the small window of her state-room, where the 
moonlight daintily tips them with myriad sparkles 
of silver light. lijw beautiful the night is, and 
how unusually still the ship ! The straining, the 
'creaking, the flapping, the innumerable sounds 
which are inseparable from motion on the great 
deep, and the management of that floating won- 
der, a ship, are reduced to a minimum to-night, 
and the sense of quiet is soothing. 

Mary is dreaming, though she does not sleep; 
dreaming of a country that is very far off, and of 
a waiting figure upon its shore, keeping patient 
watch for her. And, still dreaming, though she 
does not sleep, she sees the years of the past go 
troopmg by, they pass before her eyes, float out 
into the air, and melt into the sparkles upon the 
waves ; a long, long train of them — childhood, 
girlhood, womanhood, wifehood, motherhood — 
such is the order in which they pass, and pass 
away. The faces of the loved long ago, and the 
lost long ago — father and mother; a sister who 
died as a young child; a brother whom India 
slew among its thousands; child-friends; girl- 
friends; the lover who had been so false to her; 
the husband who had been so true to her; the 
home which had been so dear, until, in one 
7 



moment, it ceased to be home at all, and hom«» 
meant thenceforth for Mary the unseen land. 

How strangely it came back to her to-night, 
as she lay with the sleeping infant nestled in her 
bosom, an atom in the immensity around ! It' 
came back with every detail perfect, -^.very foot 
of ground, every tree, every room, and piece of 
furniture. Mary felt as though her mind were 
roaming independent of her will through all the 
forsaken scenes of her lost happiness, and recog- 
nized with a placid surprise that the journey was 
not all pain. Such small things came out of the 
deep shadows of the past and showed themselves 
to her again, things which might be called trifles, 
only that there are no trifles in the storehouse of 
memory where death has set its seal ; and, strange 
to say, they did not torture her, as small things 
can torture more keenly than the greater, because 
they tell of the frightful continuous intimacy and 
clinging presence of ruin and desolation. 

Mary, wondering, but very placidly, at her- 
self, thought this must be one of the states of 
mind which she had read of as accompanying 
bodily weakness. She had been very ill during 
the early part of the voyage. Yes, it must be 
so; thus people remembered and mused when 
the body had less than its usual power over them. 
'^All my life could not come back to me more 
uncalled, or more calmly," she thought, **if I 
were going to him, and knew it, and were just 
summing it up beforehand. ' ' 

Then it seemed to Mary that, pressing the 
infant yet more closely to her breast, she fell 
asleep, to be aroused by a sudden stir and com- 
motion where all had been so quiet, and to come 
presently to a confused sense that there was 
danger somewhere, and all around horrible fear. 
She found herself in a moment, she knew not 
how — her child in her arms, and a loose garment 
wrapped about them both — in the saloon, in the 
midst of the other passengers, who had been 
roused, like herself, from. peaceful security, with 
Ida clinging, dumb and terror-stricken, to her; 
a dreadful clamor of shrieks and weeping break- 



98 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



ing the moon-lit stillness of the night, and 
everywhere the awful cry, **Fire ! fire ! " 

A few moments more, and they were on the 
deck, Mary and Ida, and in the terror and 
clamor and confusion Bessy West found the 
other two somehow, and so they formed a sepa- 
Kate group amid the crowding, tumultuous agony 
©f the scene. Great clouds of smoke, with red, 
darting tongues of flame leaping hungrily amid 
their lurid volume, hung about the rigging; the 
terrible hissing and crackling in which the Fire 
King delivers his grim sentence of death sounded 
in the ears of the doomed passengers. The ship 
was still moving rapidly through the water, and 
fihe moon was still shedding its serene effulgence 
on the scene. Were all those human creatures 
to die a terrible death in mid-ocean, on such a 
night as this, with Heaven's fairest torch-bearer 
lighting them to their doom? None asked, none 
knew whence came the death-dealing peril; the 
fire had been smouldering somewhere for hours, 
no doubt, and had come stealthily creeping into 
evidence when its awful and invincible supremacy 
had grown too sure for remedy, and was gaining 
new territory too swiftly for combat. 

There was no hope of saving the ship. Amid 
the frightful noise and rushing motion, the unre- 
strained violence or the cowering abjectness of 
fear, the knowledge of this fact spread rapidly, 
and Mary Pemberton understood it at once. 
* * The boats ! — the boats ! ' ' Several of the crew 
set to work to get the boats out, and with the 
usual results. A rush, in which the women were 
ruthlessly trampled under foot, or pushed over- 
board, was made for the first boat that was 
lowered, and it was swamped, with the loss of ?11 
who had crowded into it. 

A second boat was lowered with more success, 
the sailors keeping back the crowd by main 
force, and, in this instance, some sort of disci- 
pline was maintained ; while all the time volumes 
of smoke rolled in blinding masses over the 
devoted vessel, red flames leaped wildly up from 
a dozen points at once, the terrific uproar was 
not lulled for an instant, and the sudden rising 
of the wind hastened the ravages of the fire, and 



rendered the danger more hideous and vastly 
more appalling. 

Mary Pemberton had not uttered a word since 
she and Ida and Bessie West had been swept up, 
to the deck of the ship by the force of the 
clamoring throng pressing out of the saloon. 
Holding her baby with one arm, the other placed 
around Ida's half-senseless form, she stood and 
looked about her with dry, red, haggard eyes, to 
see whether there was any help or hope. The 
infant woke and cried, and she mechanically put 
it to ber breast, and crooned a few notes to it ; 
and it was pacified by the mother's voice. The 
oflicers of the ship were striving to keep order, 
and to get the women conveyed in safety to the 
second boat, which had been safelv lowered. 
One of them came up to Mrs. Pemberton, and 
would have hurried her over the side of the 
burning ship. She held Ida firmly in her grasp, 
and pressed forward with her, the girl shudder- 
ing and moaning. 

"Shut your eyes, dearest; do not look while 
they lift you," was all she said to Ida. 

At that moment a man caught hold of Bessie 
West, and whirled her into the grasp of another 
who was seconding the efforts of the officers. In 
a moment she was lowered into the boat, from 
which a cry arose — **No more — no more — or 
we shall be lost ! ' ' 

Then Mary Pemberton spoke to the officer 
who was fighting her way to safety for her, and 
pushed Ida into his arms. 

** Make them take one more," she said, ^'and 
save her, for God's sake ! " 

At that moment a cry, audible and piercing 
even amid that clamor, made itself heard. It 
was uttered by a party of men who were trying 
to launch the third boat. The fire was too quick 
and too strong for them ; they were cut off from 
the boat by a barrier of flame and smoke. 
During that moment, having caught the cry and 
its meaning, Mary Pemberton had wrenched 
herself away from Ida's hold, and, with another 
hurried entreaty to the officer: **Save them! 
they are my children, ' ' she placed the infant in 
Ida's passive arms, tied the shawl in which it 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



99 



was wrapped, sling- fashion- over the girl's 
shoulder with incredible quickness, and fell back 
from her just one step. 

It was enough ; the next instant she was 
struck apart from Ida, and the officer was hurry- 
ing his terrified charge over the side. A dozen 
arms were stretched up to receive Ida, and when 
she sank swooning in the boat, as the row^ers 
struck out from the side of the burning ship, 
down which the sparks were falling, and the 
blazing cordage was dragging in tangled masses, 
Bessy West supported her on her knees, and 
gently loosed the baby from its imprisonment. 

The strong rowers pulled the crowded boat 
swiftly away from the ship. All about her tiie 
water seemed to be ablaze with red light ] and 
masses of her ruins, with human beings clinging 
to them, floated and tumbled about in the waves. 



When the boat was nearly a mile from the blaz- 
ing hulk that had been the stately Albatross^ 
and in the middle of the moon-track, the rowers 
lay-to upon their oars, and they and the people 
in the boat gazed at her in silence appalled. 
They had escaped from the fiery death which 
was devouring her, but to what fate ! 

The ship burned with extraordinary fierceness 
and rapidity, and the people in the boat still 
looked on, appalled ; until, with a terrific explo- 
sion, she was rent asunder, and the severed por- 
tions were scattered far and wide over the surface 
of the ocean. 

A minute later, and before the terrified sur- 
vivors in the boat had drawn breath again, there 
glided into sight across the moon-track, and at 
no very great distance from them, a sail ! 

Francis Cashel Hoey. 



A BROTHER'S TRIBUTE. 



HOU art sleeping, brother, sleeping 
I In thy lonely battle grave ; 

Shadows o'er the past are creeping. 
Death, the reaper, still is reaping. 
Years have swept, and years are sweeping 
Many a memory from my keeping. 
But I'm waiting still, and weeping 

For my beautiful and brave. 

When the battle songs were chanted. 

And war's stirring tocsin pealed. 
By those songs thy heart was haunted 
And thy spirit, proud, undaunted. 
Clamored wildly — wildly panted ; 
*' Mother ! let my wish be granted; 
I will ne'er be mocked and taunted 
That I fear to meet our vaunted 
Foeman on the bloody field. 

" They are thronging, mother! thronging. 

To a thousand fields of fame ; 
Let me go — 'tis wrong and wronging 
God and thee to crush this longing ; 
On the muster-roll of glory. 
In my country's future story, 

L.ofC. 



On the field of battle gory 
I must consecrate my name. 

** Mother 1 gird my sword around me, 
Kiss thy soldier-boy * good-bye. ' ' ' 
In her arms she wildly wound thee. 
To thy birth- land's cause she bound thee, 
With fond prayers and blessings crowned 

thee. 
And she sobbed : ' ' When foes surround thee. 
If you fall, I'll know they found thee 
Where the bravest love to die." 

At the altar of their nation. 

Stood that mother and her son, 
He, the victim of oblation. 
Panting for his immolation ; 
She, in priestess' holy station, 
Weeping words of consecration. 
While God smiled His approbation, 
Blessed the boy's self-abnegation, 
Cheered the mother's desolation, 
When the sacrifice was done. 

Forth like many a noble other, ^ 

Went he, whispering soft and low: 



100 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



"Good-bye — pray tor me, my mother; 
Sister ! kiss me — farewell, brother; '* 
And he strove his grief to smother. 
Forth, with footsteps firm and fearless. 
And his parting gaze was tearless. 
Though his heart was lone and cheerless. 
Thus from all he loved to go. 

Lo ! yon flag of freedom flashing 

In the sunny Southern sky : 
On, to death and glory dashing, 
On, where swords are clanging, clashing. 
On, where balls are crushing, crashing. 
On, 'mid perils dread, appalling. 
On, they're falling, falling, falling. 
On, they're growing fewer, fewer, 
On, their hearts beat all the truer, 

On, on, on, no fear, no falter. 

On, though round the battle -altar 
There were wounded victims moaning. 
There were dying soldiers groaning ; 
On, right on, death's danger braving, 
Warring where their flag was waving 
"V^Tiile Baptismal -blood was laving 

All that field of death and slaughter ; 

On, still on ; that bloody lava 
Made them braver and made them braver. 
On, with never a halt or waver. 
On in battle — bleeding — bounding. 
While the glorious shout swept sounding, 
** We will win the day or die ! " 

And they won it : routed — riven — . 
Reeled the foemen's proud array ! 
They had struggled hard, and striven. 



Blood in torrents they had given. 
But their ranks, dispersed and driven. 
Fled, in sullenness, away. 

When the twilight sadly, slowly 

Wrapped its mantle o'er them ai». 
Thousands, thousands lying lowly, 
Hushed in silence deep and holy. 
There was one, his blood was flowing 
And his last of life was going. 
And his pulse faint, fainter beating 
Told his hours were few and fleeting ; 
And his brow grew white and whiter, 
While his eyes grew strangely brighter 

There he lay — like infant dreaming, 
With his sword beside him gleaming. 
For the hand in life that grasped it, 
True in death still fondly clasped it ; 
There his comrades found him lying 
'Mid the heaps of dead and dying. 
And the sternest bent down weeping 
O'er the lonely sleeper sleeping : 
'Twas the midnight; stars shone round 
And they told us how they found him 
Where the bravest love to fall. 



% 



' 



hii>,, 



Where the woods, like banners bending. 

Drooped in starlight and in gloom. 
There, when that sad night was ending. 
And the faint, far dawn was blending 
With the stars now fast descending ; 
There they mute and mournful bore him, 
With the stars and shadows o'er him. 
And they laid him down — so tender. 
And the next day's sun, in splendor. 
Flashed above my brother's tomb. 



SOMETHING GREAT. 



'HE trial was ended — the vigil past ; 

All clad in his arms was the knight at last. 
The goodliest knight in the whole wide 
land, 
With face that shone with a purpose grand. 
The king looked on him with gracious eyes. 
And said: **He is meet for some high enter- 
prise. ' ' 



To himself he thought : '*! will conquer fate ; 
I will surely die, or do something great. ' ' 

So from the palace he rode away ; 

There was trouble and need in the town that day ; 

A child had strayed from his mother's side 

Into the woodland dark and wide. 

** Help ! " cried the mother with sorrow wild — 




PI.EASING ENTRANCE IN A SPIRITED DIALOGUE 



r 



DESCRIPTIVE 



*' Help me, Sir Knight, to seek my child 1 
The hungry wolves in the forest roam ; 
Help me to bring my lost one home ! '* 

He shook her hand from his bridle-rein : 

"Alas ! poor mother, you ask in vain ; 

Some meaner succor will do, maybe. 

Some squire or varlet of low degree. 

There are mighty wrongs in the world to right, 

I keep my sword for a noble fight. 

I am sad at heart for your baby's fate, 

But I ride in haste to do something { reat. 

One wintry night when the sun had set, 
A blind old man by the way he met ; 
"Now, good Sir Knight, for our Lady's sake, 
I On the sightless wanderer pity take ! 
The wind blows cold, and the sun is down ; 
Lead me, I pray, til! I reach the town." 
*'Nay," said the knight, "I, cannot wait ; 



RECITATIONS. 
I ride in haste to do something great. 



101 



So on he rode in his armor bright. 

His sword all keen for the longed-for fight. 

"Laugh with us — laugh!" cried the merry 

crowd. 
** Oh, weep ! ' ' wailed others with sorrow bowed. 
" Help us ! " the weak and weary prayed. 
But for joy, nor grief, nor need he stayed. 
And the years rolled on, and his eyes grew dim. 
And he died — and none made moan for him. 

He missed the good that he might have done ; 

He missed the blessings he might have won ; 

Seeking soi^ie glorious task to find, 

His eyes to all humbler work were blind. 

He that is faithful in that which is least 

Is bidden to sit at the heavenly feast ; 

Yet men and women lament their fate. 

If they be not called to do something great. 



PENN'S MONUMENT. 



ORN in stormy times, William Penn 
walked amid troubled waters all his 
days. In an age of bitter persecution 
and unbridled wickedness, he never wronged his 
i conscience. A favored member of a court 
I where statesmanship was intrigue and trickery, 
I where the highest morality was corruption, he 
never stained his hands, with a bribe. Living 
under a government at war with the people, and 
educated in a school that taught the doctrine of 
j passive obedience, his lifelong dream was of 
popular government, of a State where the people 
i ruled. 

In his early manhood, at the bidding of con- 
science, against the advice of his dearest friends. 
in opposition to stern paternal commands, 
Against every dictate of worldly wisdom and 
luman prudence, in spite of all the dazzling 
emptations of ambition, so alluring to the heart 
5f a young man, he turned away from the broad 
air highway to wealth, position, and distinction, 
hat the hands of a king opened before him, and, 
<^ting his lot with the sect weakest and most 




unpopular in England, through paths that were 
tangled with trouble and lined with pitiless 
thorns of persecution, he walked into honor and 
fame, and the reverence of the world, such as 
royalty could not promise, and could not give 
him. y 

In the land where he planted his model State, 
to-day, no descendant bears his name. In the 
religious society for which he suffered banishment 
from home, persecution, and the prison, to-day, 
no child of his blood and name walks in Chris- 
tian fellowship, nor stands covered in worship. 
His name has faded out of the living meetings of 
the Friends, out of the land that crowns his 
memory with sincerest reverence. Even the 
uncertain stone that would mark his grave stands 
doubtingly among the kindred ashes that hallow 
the ground where he sleeps. 

But his monument, grander than storied 
column of granite, or noble shapes of bronze, is 
set in the glittering brilliants of mighty States 
between the seas. His noblest epitaph is written 
in the State that bears his honored name. The 



102 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



little town he planned to be his capital has 
become a city, larger in area than any European 
capital he knew. J3eyond his fondest dreams 
has grown the State he planted in the wilderness 
by ** deeds of peace." Out oi the gloomy 
mines, that slept in rayless mystery beneath its 
mountains while he lived, the measureless wealth 
pf his model State sparkles and glows on 
millions of hearthstones. From its forests of 
derricks and miles of creeping pipe lines, the 
■^orld is lighted from the State of Penn with a 
radiance to which the sons of the founder's sons 
were blind. Roaring blast and smoky forge and 
ringing hammer are tearing and breaking the 
":vealth of princes from his mines, that t^e 



founder never knew. He built a State that ha? 
surpassed his fondest dreams. 

Clasping the continent from sea to sea, 
stretches a chain of States as free as his own. 
From sunrise to sunset reaches a land where the 
will of the people is the supreme law, — a land 
that never felt the pressure of a throne, and 
never saw a sceptre. And in the heart of th§ 
city that was his capital, in old historic halls, 
still stands the bell that first, in the name of the 
doctrines he taught his colonists, proclaimed 
liberty throughout the land, and to all the 
inhabitants thereof. This is his monument, and 
every noble charity gracing this State ib hia 
epitaph. R. J. BurdettJ" 



DANIEL .^BRITON'S RIDE. 

AN INCIDENT OF THE TERRIBLE FLOOD AT JOHNSTOWN, PA., MAY 3 1, 1 889, CAUSED 
BY THE BREAKING OF THE SOUTH FORK DAM. 



/^LL day long the rirer flowed, 
j^ Down by the winding "mountain road, 
/ Leaping and roaring in angry mood, 

At stubborn rocks in its way that stood; 
Sullen the gleam of its rippled crest, 
Daik was the foam on its yellow breast; 
The dripping banks on either side 
But half-imprisoned the turgid tide. 
By farm and village it quickly sped, — 
The weeping skies bent low overhead,— 
Foaming and rushing and tumbling down 
Into the streets of pent Johnstown, 
Down through the valley of Conemaugh, 
Down from the darn of shale and straw. 
To the granite bridge, where its waters pour, 
Through the arches wide, with a dismal roar. 

All day long the pitiful tide. 
Babbled of death on the mountain side ; 
And all day long with jest and sigh. 
They who were doomed that day to die 
Turned deafened ears to the warning roar 
They had heard so oft and despised before. 

iet women trembled — the mother's eyes 
Turned oft to the lowering, woeful skies — 



And shvddered to think what might befall 
Should the flood burst over the earthen wall. 
So all day long they went up and down. 
Heedless of peril in doomed Johnstown. 

And all day long in the chilly gloom 
Of a thrifty merchant's counting room. 
O'er the ledger bent with anxious care 
Old Peri ton's only son and heii. 
A commonplace, plodding, industrious youth. 
Counting debit and credit the highest train. 
And profit and loss a more honored game 
Then searching for laurels or fighting for fame. 
He saw the dark tide as it swept by the door, 
But heeded it not till his task was o'er; 
Then saddled his horse, — a black-pointed bay, 
High-stepping, high blooded, grandson of Dis- 
may; 
Raw-boned and deep-chested, — his eyes full of 

fire; 
The temper of Satan — Magog was his sire ; 
Arched fetlocks, strong quarters, low knees, 
i^nd lean, bony head — his dam gave him these; 
The foal of a racer transformed to a cob 
For the son of the merchant when out o( 
a job. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



103 



"Now I'll see," said Dan Periton, mounting 

the bay, 
"What danger there is of the dam giving way ! ' ' 

A marvelous sight young Periton saw 
When he rode up the valley of Conemaugh. 
Seventy feet the water fell 
With a roar like the angry ocean's swell! 
Seventy feet from the crumbling crest 
To the rock on which the foundations rest ! 
Seventy feet fell the ceaseless flow 
, into the boiling gulf below ! 

Dan Periton 's cheek grew pale with fear, 
As the echoes fell on his startled ear, 
And he thought of the weight of the pent-up tide, 
rhat hung on the rifted mountain-side, 
Held by that heap of stone and straw 
O'er the swarming valley of Conemaugh I 
The raw-boned bay with quivering ears ' 
Displayed a brute's instinctive fears, 
Snorted and pawed with flashing eye, 
Seized on the curb, and turned to fly ! 



Dan Periton tightened his grip on the rein. 
Sat close to the saddle, glanced backward again. 
Touched the bay with the spur, then gave him 

his head, 
And down the steep valley they clattering sped. 
Then the horse showed his breeding — the close 

gripping knees 
Felt the strong shoulders working with unflag- 
ging ease 
As mile after mile, 'neath the high-blooded bay. 
The steep mountain turnpike flew backward away, 
-* While with outstretched neck he went galloping 

down 

- With the message of warning to perilled Johns- 
town, 
Past iarmhouse and village, while shrilly out- 
rang, 
0*er the river's deep roar and the hoof's iron 

clang. 
His gallant young rider's premonitant shout, 
'* Fly I Fly to the hills ! The waters are out 1 " 



Past Mineral Point there came such a roar 
As never had shaken those mountains before ! 
Dan urged the good horse then with word and 

caress : 
'Twould be his last race, what mattered distress ? 
A mile farther on and behind him he spied 
The wreck-laden crest of the death-dealing tide ! 
Then he plied whip and spur and redoubled the 

shout, 
''To the hills ! To the hills ! The waters are 

out! " 
Thus horseman and flood-tide came racing it 

down 
The cinder-paved streets of doomed Johnstown ! 

Daniel Periton knew that his doom was nigh, 
Yet never once faltered his clarion cry ; 
The blood ran ofl" from his good steed's side ; 
Over him hung the white crest of the tide ; 
His hair felt the touch of the eygre's breath ; 
The spray on his cheek was the cold kiss of 

death ; 
Beneath him the horse 'gan to tremble and 

droop — 
He saw the pale rider who sat on the croup ! 
But clear over all rang his last warning shout, 
'' To the hills ! To the hills ! For the waters 

are out ! " 
Then the tide reared its head and leaped venge- 

fully down 
On the horse and his rider in fated Johnstown ! 

That horse was a hero, so poets still say, 
That brought the good news of the treaty to Aix ; 
And the steed is immortal, which carried Revere 
Through the echoing night with his message of 

fear; 
And the one that bore Sheridan into the fray. 
From Winchester town, " twenty miles away ; 'M 
But none of these merits a nobler lay \ 

Than young Daniel Peri ton's raw-boned bay 
That raced down the valley of Conemaugh, 
With the tide that rushed through the dam of 

straw. 
Roaring and rushing and tearing down 
On the fated thousands in doomed Johnstown I 



104 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



In the very track of the eygre's swoop, 
With Dan in the saddle and Death on the croup, 
The foam of his nostrils flew back on the wind. 
And mixed with the foam of the billow behind. 

A terrible vision the morrow saw 

In the desolate valley of Conemaugh ! 

The river had shrunk to its narrow bed, 

But its way was choked with the heaped-up dead. 

'Gainst the granite bridge with its arches four 



Lay the wreck of a city that delves no more ; 
And under it all, so the searchers say, 
Stood the sprawling limbs of the gallant bay, 
Stiff-cased in the drift of the Conemaugh. 
A goodlier statue man never saw, — 
Dan's foot on the stirrup his hand on the rein I 
So they shall live in white marble again ; 
And ages shall tell, as they gaze on the group. 
Of the race that he ran while Death sat on the 
croup. Albion W. Tourgee. 



A NEW YEAR'S DEED. 



T was glad New Year's morn, and from far 
and from near 
The city seemed filled with the best of 

good cheer. 
Many people were seen hurrying by, to and fro, 
And some carried turkeys and chickens, I know. 
While the sun from his lofty position looked 

down 
And sent his bright rays throughout the whole 

town. 
Down street a few blocks stood an old tenant 

house 
Which seems hardly fit for the home of a 

mouse ; 
But many poor people called that place their 

home. 
'Twas so with poor Bessie, who lived there alone 
With Tommy, her brother, a boy 'bout half 

grown. 
Their mother had died when they were quite 

small. 
And their father, while drunk, had been killed 

but this fall. 

So the poor little orphans lived on as they could. 
And Bess, tho' a cripple, was patient and good. 
Tom blacked boots and sold papers and went 

here and there. 
But often his step would be heard on the stair 
As with loud, merry whistle he'd open the door 
To see if his Bess felt afraid any more. 
Then back down the street he would cheerfully 

run 



And stay till he felt his day's work was all done. 
Things went on for some time, but when cold 

and snow came 
How the wind seemed to pierce thro' his poor 

little frame. 
No overcoat had he, no mittens so warm. 
And his poor aching toes, how they suffered the 

storm. 
Little work could he find, but the rent he must 

pay . 
To the great angry landlord this bright New 

Year's day. 
The wood was all gone, and the cupboard was 

bare ; 
Then poor little Bess leaned back in her chair 
So faint from great hunger, so blue with the cold 
It made poor Tom's heart fairly ache to behold. 

He thought she was dying; he rushed to hef 

side 
While slowly her lovely blue eyes opened wide. 
*'I'm so faint, Tom," she said, *' can't you get 

me some bread ? 
Can't you put your old coat just beneath Bessie's 

head?" 
He spread an old quilt 'round her quivering 

form, 
But oh, he knew well that would not keep her 

warm, 
As soon as she fell in a short little doze 
Tom thought for a moment, then hastily rose 
And taking his blacking brush endeavored to try 
If he could at least one ^ood customer spy. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



105 



He watched and he waited, but each as he 

passed 
Hurried on by the boot-black as fast as the last, 
Till there came by a man with his daughter so 

fair 
Tom thought the good Lord must have made 

them come there, 
For as he called out, ' ^ Have a paper, a shine ? ' ' 
The man threw him out a bright glittering 

dime. 
And said, ** Shine them nicely, and quickly as 

well. 
And while we are waiting your history tell. 
You look good and honest, but just about half 

froze. 
Why, boy, I can very near see thro* those 

clothes. ' ' 
So Tom as he rubbed told of Bessie so small^ 
How her poor little back had been broke by a 

fall, 
And he went on, as the tears filled his eyes, 
** I'll have no one to love me when good Bessie 

dies. ' ' 
As the boots were then finished, he started to go. 
But the noble young girl called out loudly, ' * No, 

no; 
'If Papa will let me, I'll go home with yuU, 
For maybe there's something that I might do." 

The proud rich man looked in his fair daughter's 

face 
As tho' she were bringing him into disgrace. 
"But, Papa," she added, ** what would Mamma 

say 
If she were alive this sad New Year's day?" 
Ah ! he knew so well how she helped many 

poor. 
None ever were turned away cold from her 

door. 
The child was so like her he could not say nay ; 
He felt it was right she should have her own 

way. 
So Tom marshalled them on, but could it be so 
That these rich people would along with him go ? 
They climbed the steep stair, Tom opened the 

door, 



There Bessie lay stretched cold and stiff on the 

floor. 
They lifted her up; no, she was not quite 

dead. 

"Oh, I am so cold," the poor, dying child said. 
**Oh, Tom, are these angels? I dreamed them 

to be, 
But some way or other I can't well see. 
I think I see mother, and just there she stands 
Calling Bessie, and waving to me with her 

hands. 
She looked very happy, the place is so fair, 
Oh, Tom, why can't you and poor Bessie go 

there?" 
She sank back exhausted, they saw all was o'er, 
But the rich man felt touched as he ne'er had 

before. 
Is it true, then, he thought, that such poverty's 

here. 
That hundreds are dying like this every year ? 
What if it were my child who has just passed 

away? 
God help me to live as I should from this day. 
I will try to be kind and not scorn at the poor. 
And my child shall have money to do all the 

more. 

So kindly they buried the poor orphan child. 
She was so sweet, and so pure, and so mild, 
While Tom was adopted to share in their home, 
Where never again when so weary would roam 
Through the cold winter's blast or the summer's 

great heat 
A poor little boot-black, forlorn in the street. 
Yes, the lesson was learned. 'Twas the one 

that's so old. 
Full many a time has the story been told 
That amid all the large, and the weak, and the 

strong, 
A pure, simple child shall lead each one along. 
And guide their weak steps by these loving acts 

given. 

And help each to dwell with his Father in 

heaven. 

Gertrude Smite, 



106 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



THE BUND POET'S WIFE. 



O *tis seven years since you went away, and 

I have been married five ; 
What! you thought I hadn't the cheek to 
propose to a girl? why, man alive, 
'Tis the strangest, most delightfiil thing that 

ever happened, you see : 
1 didn't ''pop the question'* at all; *twas 
Bessie proposed to me I 

I went to Heidelberg, as you know, to finish my 

school career. 
In the quaint old home of spectacled lore, meer- 
schaums, and lager beer ; 
And when I came back, my child playmate had 

vanished, and in her place 
Was a fair girl-woman, shy and sweet, with a 

gentle, winsome face. 
And I loved her, I loved her — God knows how 

well from her first shy welcoming glance. 
With a passion as strong and tender and pure as 

any in old romance. 
And she? — she was always pleasant and kind 

with the friend of her childhood gay, 
But whether my darling loved me or nr»t w^s 

more than I could say. 

We were out in the fields one summer eve — ^how 

well I remember it still ! — 
And somehow we two had wandered away from 

lovelorn Katie and Will, 
Till we came in the dusk to the lone black mere, 

where the aspen branches wave. 
And she coaxed me to tell her its legend grim of 

a love beyond the grave. 
Then I looked down into her soft brown eyes 

with their witching and lustrous spell. 
And I whispered ''Dear, I've another tale that 

I should like to tell ! " 
When we heard a merry shout from behind, and 

up came Willie and Kate, 
And the loving words died out on my lips, and 

I knew my story must wait. 
But she seemed from that very time to grow 

more shy and distant, you see ; 



I never could meet her out alone, or tempt licr 

to walk with me ; 
And when I tried to draw her aside to whisper a 

loving word. 
She'd flush and tremble and flutter away, like a 

pretty, frightened bird. 
I saw she shunned me, and said to myself, with 

a proud and passionate throe, 
" She loves me not, and v/ould spare us both the 

pain, of telling me so ; 
And I'd rather, God knows, that my heart 

should break in its silence bitter and 

drear 
Than I'd trouble a woman with whispers and 

vows that she doesn' t care to hear ! ' ' 

So I kept to my work with a dogged heart that 

naught could conquer or tame ; 
"Since love is denied me," I bitterly said, "I'll 

make myself a name. ' ' 
I was up with the first faint streaks of dawn, with 

pallid and haggard looks. 
And midnight found me with aching head, still 

bending over my books. 
And you know the end — how a mist would clog 

my bloodshot waking eyes. 
And circles quiver about the lights in dazzling 

rainbow dyes -, 
Then a strange dim blur of letters and lines, 

and then — all darkness there ! 
And a poor blind man upon his knees, in an 

agony of prayer. 

But it chanced as I sat and brooded alone, one 

summer's afternoon — • 
By the pleasant warmth and the scent o' the 

flowers I knew it was "leafy June" — 
Kate came and coaxed me to take her arm, and 

walk out with her, to call 
At the rectory -house, or our friends would think 

I'd quite forgotten them all. 
We sat in the quaint old parlor — ^ah, how welJ 

"^ knew it of old ! — 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



107 



A.nd the good old rector prosed away about his 

church and his fold, 
The parish schools, and the state of the roads, 

and the probable price of hay. 
Till Bessie at last jumped up from her chair, in 

her old impulsive way. 

"Come, who's for my summer house?" she 

said j * * for it is so warm in here ! 
What! none of you speak? Then, Charlie here 

shall be my cavalier. 
Mamma, dear, where is that magazine? Oh! 

here it is, I see : 
I want to read to him the poem, you know, that 

so delighted me." 
'Twas Tennyson's last new poem she reaa, and 

it may have been very fine, 
But somehow her sweet voice trembled so much, 

I could hardly follow a line ; 
And at last she gave it up with a sigh, and laid 

the book away ; 
'*I think it must be the heat," she said, '*but I 

cannot read to-day ! " 

Then there came a pause — a dreamy pause — 

when in fancy I could see 
The fair flushed face of the gentle friend so full 

of pity for me : 
Then she laid her dainty hand on mine — her 

hand that trembled so — 
And the tears were in her tender voice as she 

whispered soft and low : 
*' Charlie, we two are such old, old friends, that 

you mustn't think me bold 
If I ask you to tell me a secret that else would 

ever be untold 1 
What was it you wanted to say to me that even- 
ing by the mere ? 
Come, I'm sure you'll tell me, won't you now? 

for I should so like to hear ! 
What! you dare not tell me, you say? — ah, 

well, I think I can guess ! — 
And, Charlie, dear, I'm sure you know my 

answer would have been * Yes ! ' 
You know I loved you without the need of either 

promise or vow ; 



And yet — how cruel ! how cruel ! — you thought 
I should turn from you now ! 

Charlie, don't think me unwomanly, dear — ^un- 
womanly and weak — 

Because I give a voice to the love I know you 
would never speak ! 

'Tis better so than that both our lives should be 
forlorn and lone ; 

And so — if you care to have me, dear — you may 
take me for your own ! *' 

And so we were married — Bessie and I — and 
every hour of my life 

I*d cause to bless the happy day that brought me 
my darling wife : 

Such a true and tender helpmeet, she — so patient, 
and ready and kind, 

She almost made we think at times 'twas a bles- 
sing to be blind ! 

'Tis a twelve month ago since first I noticed, 

with strange surprise. 
That the darkness seemed to grow lighter like, 

at times, to my poor blind eyes. 
And a yearning, passionate, trembling hope 

crept into my heart and brain ; 
But never a word I said to the wife, lest my 

thought should be false and vain. 
Then I spoke to her of a book I'd planned that 

I thought would answer well. 
But I wanted some talk with a firm in town, to 

see if they thought 'twould sell; 
And Willie had promised to go with me, and 

see me through it, I said. 
For I knew she couldn't leave the bairns, or I'd 

like her to go instead. 

So we went to town for a week or so, and you'll 

easily understand 
My fluttering hopes and doubts and fears, now 

the test was near at hand ; 
Enough that wondrous day, Saul -like, the scales 

dropped off from my sight ! 
And I fainted in Willie's brotherly arms in a 

sudden blast of light. 
I was dazed and giddy-like for a while, but I 

soon got round again, 



108 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



And oh! the grateful, passionate joy that 

throbbed in my every vein ! 
Dear God, what a happy world it was — ^how 

winsome and fair to see ! — 
The very stones of the London streets seemed 

beautiful to me. 

And deep, deep down in my heart of hearts 

there nestled this crowning bliss ; 
**0h! what will she feel, my Bessie, my love, 

when she comes to hear of this ? ' ' 
You can easily guess what my feelings were 

when I got back home at last. 
And how as I trod on the threshold here, my 

heart beat thick and fast ; 
She put my hat and stick away, and with tender 

and wifely care 
Led me, who seemed so helpless and dark, to 

my old accustomed chair ; 
And then she left me a minute or so, with a kiss 

and a gentle word, 
While she ran to bring the children down, and 

my heart was strangely stirred. 
For what did I see? A wee girl-face, bright 

and eager and fair. 
With her mother's lips and lustrous eyes, and a 

ripple of golden hair. 
And a darling rogue of a baby-boy with merry 

black eyes ; and, ah ! 
They both were pleading with lips and eyes for 

*' A story, a story, papa ! " 

What sort of a story, my dears ? — a fairy story, eh ? 
Well, come, as you've been good children, I hear, 

I must humor you to-day ; 
Once on a time, in a beautiful wood, there lived 

a fairy, you know ; 
I could' nt tell you the year, of course, but 'tis 

ever so long ago. 
What was she like ? Why, Edie, child what a 

little plague you are ! 
Well I fancy — I only fancy, you know, she was 

something like mamma ; 
She'd nice brown eyes, and, let me think — yes, 

beautiful golden hair ; 
And her face was quite a treat to see, it looked 

so pleasant and fair* 



Now, in this wood a hermit dwelt, in a cottage 

lone and poor ; 
He was blind, like poor papa, my dears, and his 

heart was heavy and sore. 
Till the fairy found him out one day, as he sat 

in his lonely cot. 
And thought, * Poor man, I must do my best to 

brighten and cheer his lot ! ' 
Well, the fairy had a brother, my dears, who 

was quite a giant, 'tis said. 
And could do, oh ! my, such wonderful things 

when he took it into his head ; 
And when his fairy sister was out on an errand 

of good, one day, 
He went alone to the blind man's hut and gently 

led him away. 

H ^ed him away to a secret cave, where a 

mighty genii dwells, 
And with curious bottles and drugs and books, 

works wonderful cures and spells ; 
And he touched the man with his magic wand 

on his poor, dark, sightless eyes. 
And he saw — oh ! the joy, saw again the beauti • 

ful fields and skies ! 
He was cured, my dears, he was blind no more ; 

and he thought, with a happy smile, 
' I won't let her know it all at once, but keep it 

a secret awhile ; ' 
Well, he found the fairy waiting at home, and 

she started up from her chair, 
With her face all flushed and eager-like, as mam- 
ma's is over there ; 
And she pressed her hands, as mamma does now, 

to her throbbing brow — 
Why, Bessie, my darling, what is it now ? How 

you frighten a fellow, dear ! ' ' 
For, ah ! she had read my story right, and was 

sobbing on my breast. 
With her arms about the children and me, my 

fairy bonnie aud blest ; 
And I clasped her to my heart of hearts, while 

my brimming eyes o'erran — 
The truest helpmeet, the sweetest wife, God 

ever gave to man I 

Epwin C0LI.KR. 



1 







READY FOR THE OPENING SONG 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



109 



THE ENGINE DRIVER'S STORY. 



W 



E were driving the down express — 
Will at the steam, I at the coal — 
Over the valleys and villages ! 
Over the marshes and coppices ! 
Over the river, deep and broad ! 
Through the mountain, under the road ! 
Flying along, tearing along ! 
Thunderbolt engine, swift and strong, 
Fifty tons she was, whole and sole ! 

I had been promoted to the express ; 
I warrant you I was proud and gay, 
It was the evening that ended May, 
And the sky was a glory of tenderness. 
We were thundering down to a midland town ; 
It makes no matter about the nam^i — 
For we never stopped there, or anywhere 
For a dozen of miles on either side : 
So it's all the same — 

Just there you slide, 
With your steam shut off, and your brakes in 

hand, 
Down the steepest and longest grade in the land 
At a pace that I promise you is grand. 
We were just there with the express, 
When I caught sight of a muslin dress 
On the bank ahead ; and as we passed — 
You have no notion of how fast — • 
A girl shrank back from our baleful blast. 

We were going a mile and a quarter a minute 
With vans and carriages down the incline, 

But I saw her face, and the sunshine in it, 
I looked in her eyes, and she looked in mine 

As the train went by, like a shot from a 
mortar, 
A roaring hell-breath of dust and smoke ; 
And I mused for a minute, and then awoke, 

And she was behind us — a. mile and a quarter. 

And the years went on, and the express 
Leaped in her black resistlessness. 

Evening by evening, England through. 
Will — God rest him ! — was found, a mash 



Of bleeding rags, in a fearful smash 

He made with a Christmas train at Crewe. 

It chanced I was ill the night of the mess, 
Or I shouldn't now be here alive ; 

But thereafter the five-o'clock out express 
Evening by evening I used to drive. 

And I often saw her, — that lady I mean, 
That I spoke of before. She often stood 
A-top o' that bank : it was pretty high — 
Say twenty feet, and backed by a wood. 

She would pick the daisies out of the green 
To fling down at us as we went by. 
We had got to be friends, that girl and I, 
Though I was a rugged, stalwart chap. 
And she a lady ! I'd lift my cap. 
Evening by evening, when I'd spy 

That she was there, in the summer air. 
Watching the sun sink out of the sky. 

Oh, I didn't see her every night : 
Bless you ! no ; just now and then, 

And not at all for a twelvemonth quite. 
Then, one evening, I saw her again, 
Alone, as ever, but deadly pale. 
And down on the line, on the very rail. 

While a light, as of hell, from our wild wheels 
broke. 
Tearing down the slope with their devilish 

clamors. 
And deafening din, as of giant's hammers 

That smote in a whirlwind of dust and smoke 
All the instant or so that we sped to meet her. 
Never, oh, never, had she seemed sweeter ! 

I let yell the whistle, reversing the stroke 
Down that awful incline, and signaled the guard 
To put on his brakes at once, and hard — 
Though we couldn't have stopped. We tattered 

the rail 
Into splinters and sparks, but withoul avail. 

We couldn't stop ; and she wouldn't stir, 
Saving to turn us her eyes, and stretch 
Her arms to us ; — and the desperate wretch 

I pitied, comprehending her. 



no 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



So the "brakes let off, and the steam full again, 
Sprang down on the lady the terrible train — 
She never flinched. We beat her down, 
And ran on through the lighted length of the 

town 
Before we could stop to see what was done. 
Oh, I've run over more than one ! 
Dozens of 'em, to be sure, but none 
That I pitied as I pitied her — 
If I could have stopped, with all the spur 
Of the train's weight on, and cannily — 



But it wouldn't do with a lad like me 

And she a lady — or had been — si: ? 

W7io was she ? Best say no more of her ! 

The world is hard ; but I'm her friend, 

Stanch, sir, — down to the world's end. 

It is a curl of her sunny hair 

Set in this locket that I wear. 

I picked it off the big wheel there. 

Time's up, Jack. Stand clear, sir. Yes; 

We're going out with the express. 

W. WiLKINS 



THE VENiCE OF THE AZTECS. 



[This beautiful extract from the " History of the Conquest of Mexico,' 
city of Mexico by the Spaniards under Cortes. 



HE troops, refreshed by a night's rest, suc- 
ceeded, early on the following day, in 
gaining the crest of the sierra of Ahualco, 
which stretches like a • curtain between the two 
great mountains on the north and south. Their 
progress was now comparatively easy, and they 
marched forward with a buoyant step, as they 
felt they were treading the soil of Montezuma. 

They had not advanced far, when, turning an 
angle of the sierra, they suddenly came on a 
view which more than compensated the toils of 
the preceding day. It was that of the Valley of 
Mexico, or Tenochtitlan, as more commonly 
called by the natives ; which, with its picturesque 
assemblage of water, woodland, and cultivated 
plains, its shining cities and shadowy hills, was 
spread out like some gay and gorgeous panorama 
before them. In the highly rarefied atmosphere 
of these upper regions, even remote objects have 
a brilliancy of coloring and a distinctness of out- 
line which seem to annihilate distance. 

Stretching far away at their feet, were seen 
noble forests of oak, sycamore, and cedar, and 
(beyond, yellow fields of maize and the towering 
maguey, intermingled with orchards and bloom- 
ing gardens ; for flowers*, in such demand for 
their religious festivals, were even more abund- 
ant in \his populous valley than in other parts of 
Anahuac. In the centre of the great basin were 
beheld the lakes, occupying then a much larger 



I port] 

L 



refers to the firsv w^^iit of the 
1519-] 

borders thickly studded with towns and hamlets. 
and, in the midst, — like some Indian empresi.- 
with her coronal of pearls, — the fair city of 
Mexico, with her white towers and pyramidal 
temples, reposing, as it were, on the bosom of 
the waters, — the far-famed ** Venice of the 
Aztecs. ' ' ; 

High over all rose the royal hill of Chapulte- 
peC; the residence of the Mexican monarchs, 
crowned with the same grove of gigantic 
cypresses, which at this day fling their broad 
shadows over the land. In the distance beyond 
the blue waters of the lake, and nearly screened 
by intervening foliage, was seen a shining speck, 
the rival capital of Tezcuco, and, still further on, 
the dark belt of porphyry, girdling the valley 
around, like a rich setting which nature had 
devised for the fairest of her jewels. 

Such was the beautiful vision which broke on 
the eyes of the conquerors. And even now, 
when so sad a change has come over the scene j 
when the stately forests have been laid low, and 
the soil, unsheltered from the fierce radiance of 
a tropical sun, is in many places abandoned to 
sterility ; when the waters have retired, leaving £ 
broad and ghastly margin, white with the incrus- 
tation of salts, while the cities and hamlets on 
their borders have mouldered into ruins ; — even , 
now that desolation broods over the landscape, 
so indestructible are the lines of beauty which 



portion of its surface than at present ; their • nature has traced on its features, that no traveler, 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



Ill 



however cold, can gaze on them with any- 
other emotions than those of astonishment and 
rapture. 

What, then, must have been the emotions of 
the Spaniards, when, after working their toilsome 
way into the upper air, the cloudy tabernacle 
parted before their eyes, and they beheld these 



fair scenes in all their pristine magnificence and 
beauty ! It was like the spectacle which greeted 
the eyes of Moses from the summit of Pisgah, 
and, in the warm glow of their feelings and 
rapturous surprise, they cried out, ''It i£ the 
promised land I" 

William H. Prescoti 



THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. 



HIDEOUS leagues of straining woods. 
Straining back from the sea ; 
O, woods of pine, and nothing but pine, 
Will they never have end ior me ? 



The ceaseless line of the red, red pine — 

My very brain it sears; 
And the roar of trees, like surging seas. 

Is it ever to haunt my ears ? 

Let me remember it all. 'Twas late— 

The burning end of day ; 
The trees were all in a golden glow. 

As with flame they would burn away. 

The joyful news to our clearing came 

Came as the sun went down : 
A ship from England at anchor lay 

In the bay of the nearest town. 

In that good ship my Alice had came — 

Alice, my dainty queen ! 
Sweet Alice, my own, my own so near — 

There was only the wood between ! 

Now, three days' journey we counted that, 
The days and nights were three ; 

But for thirty days and thirty nights 
I had journeyed my love to see. 

Before an hour to the night had gone. 

Into the wood I went ; 
The pine-tops yet were bright in the light. 

Though below it was all but spent. 

J "The mooji at ten and the dawn at fourl" 
For this I offered praise ; 



Though I knew the wood on the hither side. 
Knew each of its tortuous ways. 

The moon rose redder than any sun, 
Through the straight pines it rose ; 

But glittered on keener eyes than mine. 
On the eye of the deadliest foes 1 

To sudden peril my heart awoke — 

And yet it did not quail ; 
I had skirted Indians :n their camp, 

And the fiends were upon my trail I 

Three stealthy Snakes were upon my track. 

Supple and dusk and dread ; 
A thought of Alice, a prayer to God, 

And like wind on my course I sped. 

Only in flight, in weariest flight. 

Could I my safety find ; 
But fast or slow, howe'er I might go, 

They followed me close behind. 

The night wore out and the moon went downv 

The sun rose in the sky ; 
But on and on came the stealthy foes. 

Who had made it my doom to die. 

With two to follow and one to sleep. 
They tracked me through the night ; 

But one could follow and two to sleep. 
In the day's increasing light. 

So all day under the burning sky. 
All night beneath the stars; 



112 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



And on, when the moon through ranging pines 
Gleamed white as through prison bars. 

With some to follow and some to halt. 
Their course they well might keep ; 

But I — O God, for a little rest. 
For a moment of blessed sleep ! 

Losl in the heart of the hideous wood. 

My desperate way I kept ; 
For why ? They would take me if I stayed. 

And murder me if I slept. 

But brain will yield and body will drop ^ 

And next when sunset came, 
I shrieked delirious at the light, 

For I fancied the wood on flame. 

X shrieked, I reeled ; then venomous eyes 

And dusky shapes were there ; 
And I felt the touch of gleaming steel. 

And a hand in my twisted hair. 

A cry, a struggle, and down I sank ; 

But sank not down alone — 
A shot had entered the Indian's heart. 

And his body bore down my own ! 



Yet an Indian gun that shot had fired — 

Most timely. Heaven knows ! 
For I had chanced on a friendly tribe, 

Who were watching my stealthy foes. 

And they who fired had kindliest hearts ; 

They gave me nursing care; 
And when my brain knew aught again, 

Lo, my Alice, my own, was there I 

Amid their dusky forms she stood. 

Fair to my feeble sight. 
As a shining angel God had seni* 

In a halo of blinding light. 

Dear Alice ! But O, the straining woods. 

Straining back from the sea; 
The woods of pine, and nothing but pine. 

They have never an end for me. 

The ceaseless line of the red, red pine 

My brain to madness sears ; 
And the roar of trees, like surging seas. 

Is the horror that fills my ears. 

William Sawyer. 



LADY WENTWORTH, 




^ 



In 



ago, and something 
Portsmouth, at 



her 



.NE hundred years 

more. 
Queen -street, 

tavern door. 
Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose. 
Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows. 
Just as her cuckoo clock was striking nine. 
Above her head, resplendent on the sign. 
The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, 
In scarlet coat and periwig of flax. 
Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms. 
Her cap, her bodice, and her white folded arms. 
And half resolved, though he was past his prime, 
And rather damaged by the lapse of time. 
To fall down at her feet, and to declare 
The passion that had driren him to despair. 

Just then the meditations of the Earl 
Were interrupted by a little girl, 



Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair. 
Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders bare — 
A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon. 
Sure to be rounded into beauty soon; 
A creature men would worship and adore. 
Though now in mean habiliments she bote 
A pail of water, dripping, through the street. 
And bathing, as she went, her naked feet. 

It was a pretty picture, full of grace — 
The slender form, the delicate, thin face; 
The swaying motion, as she hurried by; 
The shining feet, the laughing in her eye, 
That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and glanced; 
As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced ; 
And with uncommon feelings of delight 
The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight; 
Not so. Dame Stavers, for he heard her say 
These words, or thought he did, as plain as day: i 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



11^ 



* O, Martha Hilton! Fie! how dare you go 
About the town half dressed, and looking so ! " 
At which the Gypsy laughed and straight replied : 
** No matter how I look; I yet shall ride 
In my own chariot, ma'am. " And on the child 
The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled, 
As with her heavy burden she passed on, 
Looked back, then turned the corner, and was 
gone. 

What next, upon that memorable day. 
Drew his august attention was a gay 
And brilliant equipage, that flashed and spun. 
The silver harness glittering in the sun ; 
Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank. 
Pounding the saddles as they rose and sank. 
While all alone within the chariot sat 
A portly person, with three-cornered hat; 
Crimson velvet coat, head high in air. 
Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered hair. 
And diamond buckles sparkling at his knees^ 
Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. 
Onward the pageant swept, and as it passed. 
Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and fast ; 
For this was Governor Wentworth, driving down 
To Little Harbor, just beyond the town. 
Where his great house stood looking out to sea — 
A goodly place, where it was good to be. 

It was a pleasant mansion — an abode 
Near, yet hidden, from the great high road> 
Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, 
baronial and colonial in its style; 
Gables and dormer windows everywhere. 
Arid stacks of chimneys rising high in air. 
Within unwonted splendors met the eye: 
Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry; 
Carved chimney-pieces, where, on brazen dogs. 
Reveled and roared the Christmas fire of logs; 
And on the walls, in heavy, gilded frames. 
The ancestral Wentworths with old Scripture 

names. 
Such was the mansion where the great man dwelt 
A widower and childless, and he felt 
The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom 
That like a presence haunted every room. 
8 



The years came and the years went — ^seven in all. 
And passed in cloud and sunshine o'er the hall; 
Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and 

died. 
In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tide: 
Ships went to sea, and ships came home from sea 
And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be 
And all these years had Martha Hilton served 
In the great house and wholly unobserved. 
A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine, 
A servant who made service seem divine ! 
The very knocker of the outer door. 
If she but passed, was brighter than before. 

And now the ceaseless turning of the mill 
Of time, that never for an hour stands still, 
Ground out the Governor's sixtieth birthday 
And powdered all his hair with silver gray. 
He gave a splendid banquet, served on platCj 
Such as became the Governor of the State, 
Who represented England and the King, 
And was magnificent in everything. 
He had invited all his friends and peers — 
The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears, 
The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest. 
For why repeat the name of every guest ? 
But I must mention one, in bands and gown. 
The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown,, 
Of the established Church ; with smiling face 
He sat beside the Governor and said grace ; 
And then the feast went on, as others do. 
But ended as none others e'er I knew. 

When they had drunk the King, with many t 

cheer. 
The Governor whispered in a servant's ear. 
Who disappeared, and presently there stood 
Within the room, in perfect womanhood, 
A maiden, modest, and yet self-possessed. 
Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed. 
Can this be Martha Hilton ? It must be 1 
Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other, she i 
Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years. 
How lady-like, how queen-like she appears ; 
The pale, thin crescent of the days gone br • 
Is Dian now in all her majesty ! 



114 



Di^SCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there, 
Until the Governor, rising from his chair, 
Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked down, 
A.nd said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown : 
"This is my birthday, it shall likewise be 
My wedding-day ; and you shall marry me ! " 

iThe listening guests were greatly mystified. 
None more so than the rector, who replied : 
** Marry you ? , Yes, that were a pleasant task, 
Your excellency ; but to whom, I ask ? ' ' 
The Governor answered : **To this lady here," 
And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near : 



She came and stood, all blushes, at her side. 
The rector paused. The impatient Governor 

cried : 
"This is the lady, do you hesitate ? 
Then I command you, as chief magistrate.'* 
The rector read the service loud and clear : 
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here," 
And so on to the end. At his command, 
On the fourth finger of her left hand 
The Governor placed the ring ; and that was all— 
Matha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall ! 

H. W. Longfellow. 



AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. 

[sing the verses in Italics.] 




OWN the placid river gliding, 
* Twixt the banks of waving life. 
Sailed a steamboat heavy laden 
'Mid the scenes of former strife. 

On the deck a throng of trav'lers 

Listened to a singer's voice, 
As it sung that song of pleading,— «^ 

Song that makes the sad rejoice.— 

** Jesus, lover of my soul, 

Let me to thy bosom fly, 
While the nearer waters roily 

While the tempest still is high ; 
Hide me, (9, my Saviour, hide, 

' Till the storm of life is past ^ 
Safe into the haven guide. 

Oh, receive my soul at tasty 

In the throng an aged soldier 

Heard the voice with ears intent. 

And his quickened memory speeding 
O'er the lapse of yeai's was sent. 

And he thought of hard-fought battles. 
Of the carnage and the gore, 

And the lonely picket guarding 
On the low Potomac's shore. 

Of the clash and roar of cannon, 
And the cry of wounded men^ 



Of the sick'ning sights of slaughter' 
In some Southern prison pen. 

And that voice was old, familiar. 
And he'd heard it long ago. 

While his lonely picket guarding 
With a measured beat, and slow. 

When it ceased and all was silent. 
Thus the aged soldier cried : 

"Sir, were you a Union Soldier, 
Did you fight against our side ?* 

"Stranger, 'neath you starry pennoi* 
Fought I for the shackled slave. 

For my country and -her freedom. 
And her sacred name to save.*' 

'*Were you near the calm Potomac 
On a frosty autumn night ? 

Did you guard your lonely picket 
As the stars were shining bright? 

" Did you sing that song so grandly; 

Filling all the silent air ? 
Did you sing to your Redeemer 

As you paced so lonely there?" 

Thus the aged soldier questioned. 
And his eyes were filled with tears 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



115 



As he heard the singer answer, 
At his tale of hopes and fears : 

"Yes, I well recall that evening 
On the low Potomac's shore, 

As I paced my lonely station, 
And re-paced it o'er and o'er. 

*'And I thought of home and household,- 
Of my wife and children three, 

And my darling baby Bessie, 
Dearest in the world to me. 

"Thinking thus, my heart was troubled 
With a dread, foreboding ill ; 

And I hstened, but the midnight 
All around was calm and still. 

"Then I sang the song my mother 
Taught me, bending at her knee j 

And all fear of coming trouble 
Quickly passed away from me.*' 

Thus the singer told his story ; 

Then the aged soldier said, — 
As his heart was stirred with feeling. 

And his thoughts were backward led, — 

"And I, too, my lonely station 
Paced and re-paced o'er and o'er, 

"Where the blazing camp-fires flashing. 
Lighted up the other shore. 



"On the banks, across the river, 
There I saw your coat of blue. 

And my hand was on the trigger. 
As I aimed my gun at you ; 

"When across the silent water 

Came the song you've sung to-day. 

And my heart was touched and softened 
By that sweet, melodious lay : 

" * Other refuge have I none ^ 

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; 
Leave y oh, leave me not alone, 

Still support and comfort me. 
All my trust on Thee is stayed. 

All my help from Thee I bring, 
Cover my defenceless head 

With the shadoTJi) of Thy wing* 

"And I brought my gun to carry. 
For I could not shoot you then ; 

And your humble prayer was answered 
By our God, the Lord of men." 

Then they clasped their hands as brotheifc, 
While the steamboat glided on 

As they talked of hard-fought battles. 
And of deeds long past and gone, — 

How Jehovah had been o'er them, 

Shielded from the fiery wave, 
While they, beneath their banners. 

Fought the battles of the brave. 

Harry W. Kimball. 



THE IDIOT LAD. 



O^HE vesper hymn had died away, 
(©) And the benison had been said. 
But one remained in church to pray 

With a bowed and reverent head. 
He could not frame in words the prayer 

Which reached the Throne of Grace, 
But the Love and Pity present there 

Saw the pleading of his face. 

la many curls hung his hair of gold 
Round a brow of pearly white ; 



His face was cast in a graceful mould. 
And his eyes were strangely bright. 

Gentle his white hand's touch— his smile 
Was tender and sweet and sad. 

Nought knew the whole of fraud and guile 
Of poor Dick, the idiot lad. 

"My boy," I said, "the tired sun 
Sinks low on the west sea's breast ; 

The shades which fall when the day is done 
Woo the weary earth to rest, 



116 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



In the vesper zephyr's gentle stir 

The sleepy tree-tops nod — 
Why wait you here ? " and he said **0h, sir, 

I would see the face of God ! 

"If the sun is so fair in his noon-day pride, 

And the moon in the silver night ; 
If the stars which by angels at eventide 

Are lighted can shine so bright ; 
If wood and dell, each flow'r and tree, 

And each grass of the graveyard sod 
A-re so full of beauty, oh, what must it bf 

To look on the face of God. 

**I have sought for the vision wide and near. 

And once, sir, I travelled far 
To a mighty city long leagues from here, 

Where the men of the great world are. 
But the faces I saw were false and mean, 

And cruel, and hard, and bad ; 
And none like the face the saints have seen 

Saw poor Dick, the idiot lad. 

"In the night, sir, I wander away from home ; 

Down the lanes and the fields I go — 
Thro' the silent and lonely woods I roam, 

Patient, and praying, and slow. 
In the early morn on the hills I stand 

Ere yet the mists have past. 
And I eagerly look o'er sea and land 

For the wonderful vision at last. 

'^When the lightnings flash and the thunders 
roar, 
And the ships fly in from the gale, 
vVhen the waves beat high on the shrinking 
shore, 
And the fishing boats dare not sail, 
I seek it still in the storm and sno"w 

Lest it may happen to be 
That then it will please the great God to show 
^ His beautiful Face to m6. 

"1 seek it still when God's gleaming pledge 
In the bright' ning sky appears, 



And from tree, and flower, and sparkling hedgtt 
Earth is weeping her happy tears; 

For I sometimes think that I may behold, 
After yearning years of pain. 

The Face of my God in the quivering gold 
Of the sunshine that follows rain. 



'* When the fishers return on the homeward tide, 

I ask them nothing but this : 
* Have you seen it out there on the ocean wide, 

Where the sky and the waters kiss ? ' 
But they smile, and ' Poor Dick ' I hear them say. 

And they answer me always * No. ' 
So I think I must be still farther away 

Than even the fishing boats go.'* 



That night while the simple fisher-folk slept. 

From the dreams of the mighty free, 
Down to the beach the Idiot crept 

And launched on the summer sea. 
And the boat sped on, and on, and on 

From the ever-receding shore, 
And brighter and brighter the moonbeams shone 

Which for him were to shine no more. 



Far but at sea his boat was found, 

And the tide, which bore to land 
The village fleet from the fishing ground. 

Laid softly upon the sand 
The white wet face of the idiot boy. 

Not yearning and wistful now, 
For perfect peace, and rest, and joy 

Were written upon his brow. 

In the poor lad's eyes seemed still the glow 

Of a new and wondrous light ; 
And down on the beach the women knelt low 

As they gazed on the holy sight. 
As the fishermen walked to the smiling dead. 

Softly their rough feet trod ; 
And bared was each head, as one slowly said, 

**He has looked on the Face of God." 

Robert Overtojt* 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



117 



ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. 



PEECH is a Divine gift bestowed upon 
man. It is the natural method of com- 
municating thought between rational be- 
ings. All nations have recognized its power and 
sought itF aid. Monarchs have been elevated and 
dethroned, constitutions have been modeled and 
remodeled, wars have been instigated, and the 
yokes of tyrants have been forever broken by its 
power. 

That style of discourse by which the speaker 
by argument and eloquence moves the minds of 
his audience or incites them to action is defined 
oratory. 

As oratory depends for its success on its ability 
to persuade, the orator must speak with reference 
to his audience, and he that would study the 
character of oratory must study that which ap- 
peals to the souls of his hearers. 

The style of oratory varies with the civilization 
and temperament of the people. The ancients 
were more emotional than we. Their education 
was superficial ; books were almost unknown, 
and the knowledge which they acquired was ob- 
tained chiefly from experience and observation, 
consequently they were keenly alive to their sur- 
roundings. The human passions — love, hate, 
ambition, jealousy and greed — were strong in 
their hearts. As a natural consequence, long 
trains of reasonings, necessitating close attention 
and mental application, were the exceptions. 
The aim was not to convince their intellects, but 
to move their passions. The orator spok^ of 
their debt of gratitude, their sense of honor; he 
noted the evil arising from inaction ; he made 
general observations of their interests, reminding 
them of their homes, their wives, their 0**1- 
dren — anything which men held dear. 

Notice how Scipio Africanus shook off the 
charge of peculation. He gave a long account 
of his achievements for the state, and finally 
closed by saying that it was no time for angry 
1 squabbling, but for religious observance ; it was 
an anniversary of his victory at Zama, therefore 
i it behooved them to go up to the Capitol to 



thank the immortal gods and pray that Rome 
might never want citizens like himself. 

The audience was electrified and, rising, they 
went up to the Capitol and Scipio was freed. 
He had touched the soul of his audience by ap 
pealing to their sense of gratitude. 

While ancient oratory neglected logical reason- 
ing and cultivated appeal to the sympathies, 
modern oratory recognizes reason as the judge 
upon whose bar must be placed its final appeal. 
Growth in civilization and knowledge demands 
a firmer basis. Our oratory is not satisfied with 
lashing into foam the fickle surface, but seeks 
below the quiet depths of reason. 

The press is a potent factor in the change. 
While a Demosthenes or a Cicero swayed the 
multitude within the hearing of his voice, our 
moderm orator strives not only to move the assem- 
bled thousands but the millions scattered through 
the land. As he addresses such an audience the 
expression, the posture, the voice and the gesture 
are wanting; all that remain are the cold unim- 
passioned facts to plead his cause. Is it a won- 
der that the style of oratory has changed? It is 
a testimony to our advanced stage of civilization 
that judgment rules emotions and not emotions 
judgment. 

It has been claimed that oratory has declined 
— that this age of railroads, telegraphs, tele- 
phones and phonographs has killed the orator. 
It is a well-known fact that great crises develop 
heroes — that the greatest achievements are the 
deeds performed by the greatest natures on im- 
portant occasions. Thus in oratory those bursts 
which have formed masterpieces for the world 
were delivered when the fate of nations was in 
the balance. When Greece, torn by dissensions, 
had drunk the cup of degradation to the very 
dregs, when her strength had been exhausted by 
civil wars, when Philip from the north was 
threatening to overwhelm her shattered forces, 
then did Demosthenes deliver those renowned 
Philippics. 

It was not when ^ome was at the zenith of 



:'ki'i. 



118 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



her glory that her oratory culminated. When 
she was divided by faction, when her magis- 
trates were threatened with assassination, when 
rich were arrayed against poor and poor against 
rich. Then it was that Cicero thundered against 
Cataline. 

When the Union was threatened with dismem- 
berment, when the mutterings of the approach- 
ing tempest were heard throughout its borders, 
^hen Hayne, the champion of the South, had 
apparently settled the question of States' rights, 
Webster delivered that thrilling, masterful reply 
which has rendered his name immortal. 



The age of peace and prosperity is not best 
adapted to draw out the latent power of the 
orator. The times do not demand it. The 
theme which fired a Demosthenes, a Cicero and 
a Webster are lacking ; but, notwithstanding 
this, oratory has not declined. Oratory is an 
attribute of the soul. It has its foundation in 
love, sympathy and reason. When humanity 
sinks so low that it will not respond to these 
three, and not till then, will oratory fail to sway 
the hearts of men and wield its kingly sceptre 
over human thought and action. 

Benson N. Wyman. 



SCIPIO. 

[As an instance of Scipio's magfnanimity, ancient authors state that, after the taking of New Carthage, he restored a captive 
maiden to her lover, and gave them, as a marriage dowry, the money which her parents had brought to pay her ransom.] 



fi 



LL silent now the clash of war, the Roman 
hosts have won ; 
The knights, who held the city's gates, 
lie bleeding in the sun. 



Proud Rome, in victory, will quaff the Car- 
thaginian wine ; 

And lictors, lords and plumed knights will in 
the feast combine. 

And to the conqueror will be given a captive 

maid so fair. 
There's not a single maid in Rome with beauty 

half so rare. 

And Scipio, 'tis said, will be so raptured with 

her charms. 
He'll boast her love with greater pride than all 

his deeds of arms. 

But lo ! where yonder chariot moves, the axes 

all are hung 
With garlands, and the banners wave the laureled 

knights among. 

Behold how sways the surging crowd, the victors' 

robes they know ; 
\nd mark the rabble's noisy shout, **Make way 

for Scipio.** 



Before the open palace doors now prance the 

fretful steeds ; 
From chariot wheels to banquet hall, a flowery 

pathway leads. 

O'er arch andr pillared portals hang the perfumed 

wreath and vine. 
While from within the battered arms and costly 

trophies shine. 

Right haughtily the hero smiles, the laurel on his 

brow; 
To joyous sounds of revelry right proudly treads 

he now. 

The curule chair he slowly mounts, with kingly 

air looks round. 
When, from the crowded doorway, comes a low, 

a murmuring sound. 

With slow and faltering steps they come, the 

captive maid and knight ; 
The pompous lictors lead them in, to kneel in 

Scipio's sight. 

What wondrous eyes, so darkly bright ! How 

pale her brow and cheek ! 
She cannot meet the dreaded glance, her mute 

lips dare not speak. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



119 



Through her despair, one last hope gleams ; with 

white hands wildly pressed, 
She kneels, her dark dishevelled hair upon her 

heaving breast : 

"Oh! If in chains you must take me, upon 

your Appian way. 
Give freedom to my lover knight, I plead, I 

kneel. I pray." 

First looked he on the silent knight, and then 

upon the maid ; 
And when the murmuring crowd was still, with 

haughty mien he said ; 

** Right royal maid and knight, the laws of war, 

by land and sea. 
Give to the conqueror, ye know, the spoils of 

victory. 

''Proud Carthage knew 'n^ mercy, when on 
Cannae's bjoody plain. 



Full fifty thousand Roman knights were left 
among the slain. 

''The Roman pride has long succumbed to Car- 
thaginian power; 

Our daughters have been captives made, e'en at 
the bridal hour ; \ 

"And, though they ever knelt in vain, their 
prayers and pleading spumed. 

Though coldly have your victors from our sup- 
pliants ever turned ; 

"Yet Rome will deem the mercies, which in 

war her victor shows. 
Worth more than all the honors won in conflict 

from her foes. ' ' 

And while in wonder, looking on, stood vassals, 

lords, and all. 
He freed the captive maid and knight, and led 

them from the hall. 

Walter S. Keplinger. 



RODNEY'S RIDE. 



CT N that ^oft mid-land where the breezes bear 
(S) The north and the south on the genial air, 
Through the county of Kent^ on affairs of 
state. 
Rode Caesar Rodney, the delegate. 

Burly and big, and bold and bluff. 
In his three-cornered hat and his suit of snuff, 
A foe to King George and the English state 
Was Caesar Rodney, the delegate. 

Into Dover village he rode apace. 
And his kinsfolk knew from his anxious face. 
It was matter grave that had brought him there. 
To the counties three upon Delaware. 

"Money and men we must have," he said, 
"Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead. 
Give us both and the king shall not work his will ; 
We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill! " 



Comes a rider swift on a panting bay : 
"Hold, Rodney, ho! you must save the day, 
For the Congress halts at a deed so great, 
And your vote alone may decide its fate ! ' ' 

Answered Rodney then : "I will ride with speed ; 
It is liberty's stress; it is freedom's need. 
When meets it?" "To-night. Not a moment 

spare. 
But ride like the wind, from the Delaware." 

"Ho, saddle the black! I've but half a day, 
And the Congress sits eighty miles away, — 
But I'll be in time, if God grants me grace. 
To shake my fist in King George's face.'* 

He is up ; he is off ! and the black horse flies. 
On the northward road ere the "God-speed!** 
dies. 



120 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear, 
And the clustering milestones move a-rear. 

It is two of the clock ; and the fleet hoofs fling 
The Fieldsboro's dust with a clang and cling. 
It is three; and he gallops with slack rein where 
The road winds down to the Delaware. 

' Four ! and he spurs into Newcastle town, 
From his panting steed he gets him down — 
'*A fresh one, quick ; not a moment's wait ! " 
And off speeds Rodney, the delegate. 

It is five ; and the beams of the western sun 
Tinge the spires of Wilmington, gold and dun ; 
Six ; and the dust of the Chester street 
Flies back in a cloud from his courser's feet. 

It is seven ; the horse boat, broad of beam, 
At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream; 



And at seven-fifteen by the Rittenhouse ciock 
He flings his rein to the tavern Jock. 

The Congress is met; the debate's begun, 
And liberty lags for the vote of one — 
When into the hall, not a moment late, 
Walks Caesar Rodney, the delegate. 

Not a moment late ! and that half-day's ride 
Forwards the world with a mighty stride, — 
For the Act was passed, ere the midnight stroke 
O'er the Quaker City its echoes woke. 

At Tyranny's feet was the gauntlet flung; 

"We are free ! " all the bells through the colonies 

rung. 
And the sons of the free may recall with pride 
The day of delegate Rodney's ride. 

Elbridge S. Brooks. 



THE INDIANS. 



'HERE is, in the^fate of these unfortunate 
beings, much to awaken our sympathy, 
and much to disturb the sobriety of our 
judgment ; much which may be urged to excuse 
their own atrocities; much in their characters, 
which betrays us into an involuntary admiration. 
What can be more melancholy than their his;tory? 
By a law of their nature, they seem destined to a 
slow, but sure extinction. Everywhere, at the 
approach of the white man, they fade away. We 
hear the rustling of their footsteps, like that of 
the withered leaves of autumn, and they are gone 
forever. They pass mournfully by us, and they 
return no more. 

Two centuries ago, the smoke of their wig- 
wams and the fires of their councils rose in every 
valley, from Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, 
from the ocean to the Mississippi and the lakes. 
The shouts of victory and the war-dance rang 
through the mountains and the glades. The 
thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled 
through the forests; and the hunter's trace and 
dark encampment startled the wild beasts in their 
lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. 



The young listened to the songs of other days. 
The mothers played with their infants, and gazed 
on the scene with warm hopes of the future. 
The aged sat down; but they wept not They 
should soon be at rest in fairer regions, where 
the Great Spirit dwelt, in a home prepared for 
the brave, beyond the western skies. 

Braver men never lived ; truer men never 
drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, 
and sagacity, and perseverance, beyond most of 
the human race. They shrank from no dangers, 
and they feared no hardships. If they had the 
vices of savage life, they had the virtues also. 
They were true to their country, their friends, 
and their homes. If they forgave not injury, 
neither did they forget kindness. If their ven- 
geance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity 
were unconquerable also. Their love, like theii 
hate, stopped not on this side of the grave. 

But where are they? Where are the villagers, 
and warriors, and youth ; the sachems and the 
tribes; the hunters and their families? They 
have perished. They are consumed. The 
wasting pestilence has not alone done the mighty 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



12i 



work. No,— nor famine, nor war. There nas 
been a mightier power, a moral canker, which 
has eaten into their heart-cores — a plague, which 
the touch of the white man communicated — a 
poison, which betrayed them into a lingering 
ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single 
region which they may now call their own. 

Already the last feeble remnants of the race 
are preparing for their journey beyond the Mis- 
sissippi. I see them leave their miserable homes, 
the aged, the helpless, the women, and the war- 
riors, '^ few and faint, yet fearless still." The 
ashes are cold on their native hearths. The 
smoke no longer curls round their lowly cabins. 
They move on with a slow, unsteady step. The 
white man is upon their heels, for terror or 
despatch ; but they heed him not. 

They turn to take a last look of their deserted 
villages. They cast a last glance upon the 
graves of their fathers. They shed no tears; 
they utter no cries j they heave no groans. There 



IS something in their hearts which passes speech. 
There is something in their looks, not of ven- 
geance or submission; but of hard necessity, 
which stifles both ; which chokes all utterance ; 
which has no aim or method. It is courage 
absorbed in despair. They linger but for a 
moment. Their look is onward. They have 
passed the fatal stream. It shall never be re* 
passed by them, — no, never. Yet there lies 
not between us and them an impassable gulf. 
They know and feel that there is for them still 
one remove further, not distant, nor unseen. It 
is to the general burial-ground of their race. 

Reason as we may, it is impossible not to 
read in such a fate much that we know not how 
to interpret ; much of provocation to cruel 
deeds and deep resentments ; much of apology 
for wrong and perfidy ; much of pity mingling 
with indignation ; much of doubt and misgiving 
as to the past ; much of painful recollections ; 
much of dark forebodings. Joseph Story. 



THE DIAMOND WEDDING. 



©OME sit close by my side, my darling, 
Sit up very close to-night : 
Let me clasp your tremulous fingers 
In mine, as tremulous quite. 
Lay your silvery head on my bosom. 

As you did when 'twas shining gold: 
Somehow I know no difference. 
Though they say we are very old. 

*Tis seventy-five years to-night, wife. 
Since we knelt at the altar low. 

And the fair young minister of God 
(He died long years ago, ) 

Pronounced us one that Christmas eve- 
How short they've seemed to me, 

The years — and yet I'm ninety-seven. 
And you are ninety-three. 

That night I placed on your finger 

A band of purest gold ; 
And to-night I see it shining 

On the withered hand I hold. 



How it lightens up the memories 

That o'er my vision come! 
Fiist of all are the merry children 

That once made glad our home. 

There was Benny, our darling Benny^^ 

Our first-born pledge of bliss, 
As beautiful a boy as ever 

Felt a mother's loving kiss. 
*Twas hard — as we watched him fading 

Like a floweret day by day — 
To feel that He who had lent him 

Was calling him away. 

My heart it grew very bitter 

As I bowed beneath the stroke; 
And yours, though you said so little, 

1 knew was almost broke. 
We made him a grave 'neath the daisies 

(There are five now, instead of one). 
And we've learned, when our Father chastens. 

To say, ** Thy will be done." 



122 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



Then came Lillie and Allie — twin cherubs, 

Just spared from the courts of heaven — 
To comfort our hearts for a moment : 

God took as soon as he'd given. 
Then Katie, our gentle Katie ! 

We thought her very fair. 
With her blue eyes soft and tender. 

And her curls of auburn hair 

Like a queen she looked at her bridal 

(I thought it were you instead) ; 
But her ashen lips kissed her first-bom. 

And mother and child were dead. 
We said that of all our number 

We had two, our pride and stay — 
Two noble boys, Fred and Harry; — 

But God thought the other way. 

Far away, on the plains of Shiloh, 

Fred sleeps in an unknown grave; 
With his ship and noble sailors 

Harry sank beneath the wave. 
So sit closer, darling, closer — 

Let me clasp your hand in mine: 
Alone we commenced life's journey. 

Alone we are left behind. 



Your hair, once gold, to silver 

They say by age has grown; 
But I know it has caught its whitenew 

From the halo round His throne. 
They give us a diamond wedding 

This Christmas eve, dear wife; 
But I know your orange-blossoms 

Will be a crown of life. 

*Tis dark; the lamps should be lighted; 

And your .hand has grown so cold, 
Has the fire gone out? how I shiver! 

But, then, we are very old. 
Hush! I hear sweet strains of music; 

Perhaps the guests have come. 
No— 'tis the children's voices — 

I know them, every one. 

On that Christmas eve they found them. 

Their hands together clasped; 
But they never knew their children 

Had been their wedding guests. 
With her head upon his bosom. 

That had never ceased its love. 
They held their diamond wedding 

In the mansion house above. 



XERXES AT THE HELLESPONT. 



ii 



© 



ALM is now that stormy water, — it has 

learned to fear my wrath : 
Lashed and fettered, now it yields me 

for my hosts an easy path ! ' ' 
Seven long days did Persia's monarch on the 

Hellespontine shore. 
Throned in state, behold his armies without 

pause defiling o'er ; 
Only on the eighth the rearward to the other side 

were past, — 
Then one haughty glance of triumph far as eye 

could reach he cast ; 
Far as eye could reach he saw them, multitudes 

equipped for war, — 
Medi>*«is with their bows and quivers, iinked 

armor and tiar ; 



From beneath the sun of Afric, from the snowy 
hills of Thrace, 

And from India's utmost borders, nations gath- 
ered in one place : 

At a single mortal's bidding all this pomp of war 
unfurled — 

All in league against the freedom and the one 
hope of the world ! 



"What though once some petty trophies from my 

captains thou hast won. 
Think not, Greece, to see another such a day as 

Marathon : 
Wilt thou dare await the conflict, or in battle 

hope to stand. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



123 



When the lord of sixty nations takes himself his 

cause in hand ? 
Lo ! they come, and mighty rivers, which they 

drink of once, are dried ; 
And the wealthiest cities beggared, that for them 

one meal provide. 
Power of number by their numbers infinite are 

overborne, 
So I measure men by measure, as a husband- 
man his corn. 
Mine are all, — this sceptre sways them, — mine is 

all in every part ! ' ' 
And he named himself most happy, and he 

blessed himself in heart — 



Blessed himself, but on that blessing tears abun- 
dant followed straight. 

For that moment thoughts came o'er him of 
man's painful brief estate : 

Ere a hundred years were finished, where would 

all those myriads be ? 
Hellespont would still be rolling his blue waters 

to the sea ; 
But of all those countless numbers, not one living 

would be found, — 
A dead host with their dead monarch, silent in 

the silent ground. 

R. C. Trench. 



THE LAST REDOUBT. 



T^ACELYEVO'S slope still felt 
K\ The cannon's bolts and the rifles' pelt ; 
@) For the last redoubt up the hill re- 
mained. 
By the Russ yet held, by the Turk not gained. 

Mehemet Ali stroked his beard ; 
His lips were clinched and his look was weird ; 
Round him were ranks of his ragged folk. 
Their faces blackened with blood and smoke. 

^' Clear me the Muscovite out ! " he cried. 
Then the name of * 'Allah ! " echoed wide. 
And the fezzes were waved and the bayonets 

lowered, 
And on to the last redoubt they poured. 

One fell, and a second quickly stopped. 
The gap that he left when he reeled and dropped ; 
The second, — a third straight filled his place ; 
The third, — and a fourth kept up the race. 

Many a fez in the mud was crushed, 
Many a throat that cheered was hushed, 
Many a heart that sought the crest 
Found Allah's arms and a houri's breast. 

Over their corpses the living sprang, 

And the ridge with their musket-rattle rang, 



Till the faces that lined the last redoubt. 
Could see their faces and hear their shout. 

In the redoubt a fair form towered. 

That cheered up the brave and chid the coward ; 

Brandishing blade with a gallant air ; 

His head erect and his bosom bare. 

''Fly ! they are on us ! " his men implored ; 
But he waved them on with his waving sword. 
"It cannot be held ; ' tis no shame to go ! " 
But he stood with his face set hard to the foe. 

Then clung they about him and tugged, and 

knelt ; 
He drew a pistol from out his belt. 
And fired it blank at the first that set 
Foot on the edge of the parapet. 

Over that first one toppled : but on 
Clambered the rest till their bayonets shone ; 
As hurriedly fled his men dismayed. 
Not a bayonet's length from the length of his 
blade. 

"Yield ! " But aloft his steel he flashed, 
And down on their steel it ringing clashed ; 
Then back he reeled with a bladeless hilt, 
His honor full, but his life-blood spilt. 



124 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



They lifted him up from the dabbled ground ; 
His limbs were shapely and soft and round, 
No down on his lip, on his cheek no shade, — 
"Bismillah ! " they cried, "'tis an infidel 
maid!" 

Mehemet Ali came and saw 
The riddled breast and the tender jaw, 
**Make her a bier of your arms," he said, 
*' And daintily bury this dainty dead ! 
*^Make her a grave where she stood and fell, 



'Gainst the jackal's scratch and the vulture'c 

smell. 
Did the Muscovite men like their maidens fight, 
In their lines we had scarcely supped to-night. ' ' 

So a deeper trench ' mong the trenches there 
Was dug, for the form as brave as fair ; 
And none, till the judgment trump and shout. 
Shall drive her out of the last redoubt. 

Alfred Austin. 



THE HEROISM OF THE PILGRIMS. 



<T F one were called upon to select the most 
($) glittering of the instances of military hero- 
ism to which the admiration of the world 
has been most constantly attracted, he would 
make choice, I imagine, of the instance of that 
desperate valor, in which, in obedience to the 
laws, Leonidas and his three hundred Spartans 
cast themselves headlong, at the passes of Greece, 
on the myriads of their Persian invaders. From 
the simple page of Herodotus, longer than from 
the Amphictyonic monument, or the games of 
the comp^emoration, that act speaks still to fhe 
tears an( praise of all the world. 

Judges f, that night, as they watched the dawn 
of the b' morning their eyes could ever see; as 
they heULil with every passing hour the stilly hum 
of the ir;vading host, his dusky lines stretched 
out without end, and now almost encircling them 
around; as they remembered their unprofaned 
home, city of heroes and the mother of heroes, — 
judge if, watching there, in the gateway of 
Greece, this sentiment did not qrow to the 
nature of madness, if it did not run m torrents of 
literal fire to and from the laboring heart; and 
when morning came and passed, and they had 
dressed their long locks for battle, and when, at 
a little after noon, the countless invading throng 
was seen at last to move, was it not with a rap- 
ture, as if all the joy, all the sensation of life, 
was in that one moment, that they cast themselves, 
with the fierce gladness of mountain torrents, 
headlong upon that brief revelry of glory. 

I acknowledge the splendor of that transaction 



in all its aspects. I admit its morality, too, and 
its useful influence on every Grecian heart in 
that greatest crisis of Greece. 

And yet, do you not think that whoso could, 
by adequate description, bring before you that 
winter of the Pilgrims, — its bright sunshine ; 
the night of the storm, slow waning; the damp 
and icy breath, felt to the pillow of the dying; 
:!ts destitutions, its contrasts with all their former 
experience in life, its utter insulation and loneli- 
ness, its death-beds and burials, its memories, its 
appjehensions, its hopes ; the consultations of the 
prudent; the prayers of the pious; the occa- 
sional cheerful hymn, in which the strong heart 
threw off its burdens, and, asserting its un- 
vanquished nature, went up, like a bird of dawn, 
to the skies ; — do ye not think that whoso could 
describe them calmly waiting in that defile, 
lonelier and darker than Thermopylae, for a morn- 
ing that might never dawn, or might show them, 
when it did, a mightier arm than the Persian 
raised as in the act to strike, would he not sketch 
a scene of more difficult and rarer heroism? 
A scene, as Wordsworth has said, "melancholy, 
yea, dismal, yet consolatory and full of joy ; " a 
scene even better fitted to succor, to exalt, to 
lead the forlorn hopes of all great causes, till 
time shall be no more ! 

I have said that I deemed it a great thing for 
a nation, in all the periods of its fortunes, to be 
able to look back to a race of founders, and a 
principle of institution, in which it might ration- 
ally admire the realized idea of true heroism. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



125 



That felicity, that pride, that help, is ours. Our 
past, with its great eras, that of settlement, and 
that of independence, should announce, should 
compel, should spontaneously evolve as from a 
germ, a wise, moral, and glowing future. Those 
heroic men and women should not look doT^Ti on 
a dwindled posterity. That broad foundation, 
sunk below the frost or earthquake, should bear 



up something more permanent than an encamp- 
ment of tents, pitched at random, and struck 
when the trumpet of march sounds at next day- 
break. It should bear up, as by a natural 
growth, a structure in which generations may 
come, one after another, to the great gift of the 
social life. 

RuFus Choate. 



LITTLE ROCKET'S CHRISTMAS. 



f'LL tell yo<r how the Christmas came 
To Rocket — no, you never met him, 
That is, you never knew his name, 
Although 'tis possible you've let him 
Display his skill upon your shoes ; 
A bootblack — Arab, if you choose. 
Has inspiration dropped to zero 
When such material makes a hero ? 

And who was Rocket ? Well, an urchin, 

A gamin, dirty, torn, and tattered, 
AVhose chiefest pleasure was to perch in 

The Bowery gallery ; there it mattered 
But little what the play might be — 
Broad farce or point -lace comedy- 
He meted out his just applause 
By rigid, fixed, and proper laws. 

A father once he had, no doubt, 

A mother on the Island staying, 
^Vhich left him free to knock about 

And gratify a taste for straying 
Through crowded streets. ' Twas there he found 
Companionship and grew renowned. 
An ash-box served him for a bed — 

Ag good, at least, as Moses' rushes — 
And for his daily meat and bread, 

He earned them with his box and brushes. 

I 

An Arab of the city's slums. 

With ready tongue and empty pocket, 

Unaided left to solve life's sums, 

But plucky always — that was Rocket ! 

'Twas Christmas eve, and all the day 
The snow had fallen fine and fast j 



In banks and drifted heaps it lay 

Along the streets. A piercing blast 
Blew cuttingly. The storm was past, 
And now the stars looked coldly down 
Upon the snow-enshrouded town. . 
Ah, well it is if Christmas brings 
Good will and peace which poet sings ! 
How full are all the streets to-night 
With happy faces, flushed and bright ! 
The matron in her silks and furs. 

The pompous banker, fat and sleek. 
The idle, well-fed loiterers, 

The merchant trim, the churchman meek. 
Forgetful now of hate and spite. 
For all the world is glad to-night ! 
All, did I say ? Ah, no, not all, 
For sorrow throws on some its pall ; 
And here, within the broad, fair city. 

The Christmas time no beauty brings 
To those who plead in vain for pity. 

To those who cherish but the stings 
Of wretchedness and want and woe, 
Who never love's great bounty know. 
Whose grief no kindly hands assauge. 
Whose misery mocks our Christian age. 
Pray ask yourself what means to them 
That Christ is born in Bethlehem ! 

But Rocket ? On this Christmas eve 

You might have seen him standing where 

The city's streets so interweave 

They form that somewhat famous square 

Called Printing House. His face was bright, 
And at this gala, festive season 

You could not find a heart more light— 



126 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



I'll tell you in a word the reason : 
By dint of patient toil in shining 

Patrician shoes and wall street boots 
He had within his jacket's lining, 

A dollar and a half — the fruits 
Of pinching, saving, and a trial 
Of really Spartan self-denial. 

That dollar and a half was more 
Than Rocket ever owned before. 
A princely fortune, so he thought, 

And with those hoarded dimes and nickels 
What Christmas pleasures may be bought ! 

A dollar and a half ! It tickles 
The boy to say it over, musing 
Upon the money's proper using; 
*' I' 11 go a gobbler, leg and breast, 

With cranberry sauce and fixin's nice, 
And pie, mince pie, the very best. 

And puddin' — say a double slice ! 
And then to doughnuts how I'll freeze ; 
With coffee — guess that ere's the cheese ! 
And after grub I'll go to see 
The ^ Seven Goblins of Dundee.' 
If this yere Christmas ain't a buster, 
I'll let you rip my Sunday duster ! " 

So Rocket mused as he hurried along, 

Clutching his money with grasp yet tighter, 
/Ind humming the air of a rollicking song, 

With a heart as light as his clothes — or lighter. 
Through Centre street he makes his way, 

When, just as he turns the corner at Pearl, 
He hears a voice cry out in dismay. 

And sees before him a slender girl, 
As ragged and tattered in dress as he. 

With hand stretched forth for charity. 

j In the street-light's fitful and flickering glare 
He caught a glimpse of the pale, pinched 
face — 
So gaunt and wasted, yet strangely fair. 

With a lingering touch of childhood's grace 
On her delicate features. Her head was bare. 

And over her shoulders disordered there hung 
A mass of tangled, nut-brown hair. 



In misery old as in years she was young, 
She gazed in his face. And, oh ! for the eyes— - 
The big, blue, sorrowful, hungry eyes, — 

That were fixed in a desperate frightened 
stare. 

Hundreds have jostled her by to-night — 

The rich, the great, the good, and the wise, 
Hurrying on to the warmth and light 
Of happy homes — they have jostled her by. 
And the only one who has heard her cry. 
Or, hearing, has felt his heartstrings stirred. 
Is Rocket — this youngster of coarser clay, 
This gamin, who never so much as heard 
The beautiful story of Him who lay 
In the manger of old on Christmas day ! 

With artless pathos and simple speech, 

She stands and tells him her pitiful tale; 
Ah, well, if those who pray and preach 

Could catch an echo of that sad wail ! 
She tells of the terrible battle for bread. 

Tells of a father brutal with crime. 
Tells of a mother lying dead, 

At this, the gala Christmas-time y 
Then adds, gazing up at the starlit sky, 
**I'm hungry and cold, and I wish I could die.* 

What is it trickles down the cheek 

Of Rocket — can it be a tear? 
He stand and stares, but does not speak ; 

He thinks again of that good cheer 
Which Christmas was to bring ; he sec 

Visions of turkey, steaming pies, 
The play-bills — then, in place of these, 

The girl's beseeching, hungry eyes; 
One mighty effort, gulping down 

The disappointment in his breast, 
A quivering of the lip, a frown. 

And then, while pity pleads her best, 
He snatches forth his cherished hoard. 
And gives it to her like a lord ! 
"Here, freeze to that ; I'm flush, yer see, 
And then you needs it more 'an me ! " 
With that he turns and walks away, 
So fast the girl can nothing say, 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



127 



So fast he does not hear the prayer 
That sanctifies the winter air. 
But He who blessed the widow's mite 
Looked down and smiled upon the sight. 

No feast of steaming pies or turkey, 

No ticket for the matinee, 
All drear and desolate and murky, 

In truth, a very dismal day. 



With dinner on a crust of bread, 

And not a penny in his pocket, 
A friendly ash-box for a bed — 

Thus came the Christmas day to Rocket, 
And yet — ^and here's the strangest thing— 

As best befits the festive season, 
The boy was happy as a king — 

I wonder can you guess the reason ? 

Vandyke Brown. 



THE WRECK. 



f OPENED the yard gate and looked into the 
empty street. The sand, the sea- weed, 
and the flakes of foam were driving by, 
and I was obliged to call for assistance before I 
could shut the gate again, and make it fast 
against the wind. 

There was a dark gloom in my lonely cham- 
ber, when I at length returned to it ; but I was 
tired now, and, getting into bed again, fell into 
the depths of sleep until broad day ; when I was 
aroused at eight or nine o'clock by some pne 
knocking and calling at my door. 

"What is the matter? " 

''A wreck ! close by ! " 

"What wreck?" 

"A schooner from Spain or Portugal, laden 
with, fruit and wine. Make haste, sir, if you 
want to see her ! It's thought down on the 
beach she'll go to pieces every moment." 

I wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly as 
I could, and ran into the street, where numbers 
of people were before me, all running in one 
direction, — to the beach. I ran the same way, 
outstripping a good many, and soon came facing 
the wild sea. Every appearance it had before 
presented bore the expression of being .$-z£/^//^^/ 
and the height to which the breakers rose and 
bore one another down, and rolled in, in inter- 
minable hosts, was most appalling. 

In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind 
and waves, and in the crowd, and the unspeakable 
confusion, and my first breathless efforts to stand 
against the weather, I was so confused that I 
looked out to sea for the wreck, and saw nothing 
r t*ttt th^ Coaming heads of the great waves. 



A boatman laid a hand upon my arm, and 
pointed. Then I saw it, close in upon us. 

One mast was broken short off, six or eight 
feet from the deck, and lay over the side, en« 
tangled in a maze of sail and rigging ; and all 
that ruin, 'as the ship rolled and beat, — which 
she did with a violence quite inconceivable, — 
beat the side as if it would stave it in. Some 
efforts were being made to cut this portion of the 
wreck away ; for as the ship, which was broad- 
side on, turned towards us in her rolling, I 
plainly descried her people at work with axes, — 
especially one active figure, with long curling 
hair. But a great cry, audible even above the 
wind and water, rose from the shore, the sea, 
sweeping over the wreck, made a clean breach, 
and carried men, spars, casks, planks, bulwarks, 
heaps of such toys, into the boiling surge. 

The second mast was yet standing, with the 
rags of a sail, and a wild confusion of broken 
cordage, flapping to and fro. The ship had 
struck once, the same boatman said, and then 
lifted in, and struck again. I understood him 
to add that she was parting amidships. As he 
spoke, there was another great cry of pity from 
the beach. Four men arose with the wreck out 
of the deep, clinging to the rigging of the le* 
maining mast ; uppermost the active figure with 
the curling hair. 

There was a bell on board ; and as the ship 
rolled and dashed, this bell rang ; and its sound, 
the knell of those unhappy men, was borne 
towards us on the wind. Again we lost her, 
and again she rose. Two of the four men were 
gone. 



128 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



I noticed that some new sensation moved the 
people on the beach, and I saw them part, and 
Ham came breaking through them to the front. 

Instantly I ran to him, for I divined that he 
meant to wade off with a rope. I held him back 
with both arms ; and implored the men not to 
listen to him, not to let him stir that sand. 

Another cry arose, and we saw the cruel sail, 
with blow on blow, beat off the lower of the two 
men, and fly up in triumph round the active 
figure left alone upon the mast. Against such a 
sight, and against such determination as that of 
the calmly desperate man, who was already ac- 
customed to lead half the people present, I 
might as hopefully have entreated the wind. 

I was swept away to some distance, where the 
people around me made me stay ; urging, as I 
confusedly perceived, that he was bent on going, 
with help or without, and that I should endanger 
the precautions for his safety by troubling those 
with whom they rested. I saw hurry on the 
beach, and men running with ropes, and pene- 
trating into a circle of figures that hid him from 
me. Then I saw him standing alone, in a sea- 
man's frock and trousers, a rope in his hand, 
another round his body, and several of the best 
men holding to the latter. 

The wreck was breaking up. I saw that she 
was parting in the middle, and that the life of 
the solitary man upon the mast hung by a thread. 
He had a singular red cap on, not like a sailor's 
cap, but of a finer color ; and as the few planks 
between him and destruction rolled and bulged, 
and as his death knell rung, he was seen by all 
of us to wave this cap. I saw him do it now, 
and thought I was going distracted, when his 
action brought an old remembrance to my mind 
of a once dear friend, the once dear friend, — 
Steerforth. 



Ham watched the sea until there was a great re- 
tiring wave ; when he dashed in after it, and in 
a moment was buffeting with the water, rising with 
the hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the 
foam, — borne in towards the shore, borne on 
towards the ship. 

At length he neared the wreck. He was so 
near, that with one more of his vigorous) strokes, 
he would be clinging to it, when, a high, green, 
vast hill-side of water moving on shoreward 
from beyond the ship, he seemed to leap up 
into it with a mighty bound, — and the ship was 
gone ! 

They drew him to my very feet, insensible, 
dead. He was carried to the nearest house, and 
every means of restoration was tried ; but lie 
had been beaten to death by the great wave, and 
his generous heart was stilled for ever. 

As I sat beside the. bed, when hope was 
abandoned, and all was done, a fisherman who 
had known me when Emily and I were children, 
and ever since, whispered my name at the door. 

"Sir, will you come over yonder?" 

The old remembrance that had been recalled 
to me was in his look, and I asked him, * ' Has a 
body come ashore ? ' ' 

**Yes." 

"Do I know it?" 

He aswered nothing. But he led me to the 
shore. And on that part of it where she and I 
had looked for shells, two children, — on that 
part of it where some lighter fragments of the 
old boat blown down last night had been scat- 
tered by the wind, — among the ruins of the 
home he had wronged, — I saw him lying with 
his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him 
lie at school. 

Charles Dickens. 



SUPPOSED SPEECH OF REQULUS. 



'HE palaces and domes of Carthage were 
burning with the splendors of noon, and 
the blue waves of her harbor were rolling 
and gleaming in the gorgeous sunlight. An at- 
tentive ear could catch a low murmur, sounding 



from the centre of the city, which seemed like 
the moaning of the wind before a tempest. And 
well it might. The whole people of Carthage, 
startled, astounded by the report that Regulus 
had returned, were pouring, a mighty tide, into 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



129 



the great square before the Senate House, a great 
outpouring of the populace. 

There were mothers in that throng, whose cap- 
cive sons were groaning in Roman fetters; 
maidens, whose lovers were dying in the distant 
dungeons of Rome; gray-haired men and ma- 
trons, whom Roman steel had made childless; 
men, who were seeing their country's life crushed 
out by Roman power; and with wild voices, 
cursing and groaning, the vase throng gave vent 
to the rage, 'the hate, the anguish of long years. 
Calm and unmoved as the marble walls around 
him, stood Regulus, the Roman ! He stretched 
his arm over the surging crowd with a gesture as 
proudly imperious, as though he stood at the 
head of his own gleaming cohorts. Before that 
silent command the tumult ceased — the half- 
uttered execration died upon the lip — so intense 
was the silence that the clank of the captive's 
brazen manacles smote sharp on every ear, as he 
thus addressed them : 

*^Ye doubtless thought, judging of Roman 
virtue by your own, that I would break my 
plighted faith, rather than by rettuming, and 
leaving your sons and brothers to rot in Roman 
dungeons, to meet your vengeance. Well, I' 
could give reasons for this return, foohsh and 
inexplicable as it seems to you ; I could speak 
of yearnings after immortality — of those eternal 
principles in whose pure light a patriot's 
death is glorious, a thing to be desired ; but, by 
great Jove ! I should debase myself to dwell on 
such high themes to you. If the bright blood 
■\ which feeds my heart were like the shmy ooze 
] that stagnates in your veins, I should have re- 
; mained at Rome, saved my life and broken my 
oath. 

*'If, then, you ask, why I have come back, to 
let you work your will on this poor body which 
I esteem but as the rags that cover it, — enough 
reply for you, it is because I a?n a Roman! As 
such, here in your very capital I defy you ! 
What I have done, ye never can itndo ; what ye 
may do, I care not. Since first my young arm 
\ knew how to wield a Roman sword, have I not 
routed your armies, burned your towns, and 
9 



dragged your generals at my chariot wheels? 
And do ye now expect to see me cower and 
whine with dread of Carthaginian vengeance? 
Compared to that fierce mental strife which my 
heart has just passed through at Rome, the 
piercing of this flesh, the rending of the sinews, 
would be but sport to ma 

** Venerable senators, with trembhng voices 
and outstretched hands, besought me to return 
no more to Carthage. The generous people, 
with loud wailing, and wildly-tossing gestures, 
bade me stay. The voice of a beloved mother, 
— ^her withered hands beating her breast, her 
gray hairs streaming in the wind, tears flowing 
down her furrowed cheeks — praying me not to 
leave her in her lonely and helpless old age, is 
still sounding in my ears. Compared to anguish 
like this, the paltry torments you have in store is 
as the murmur of the meadow brook to the wild 
tumult of the mountain storm. 

**Go! bring your threatened tortures! The 
woes I see impending over this fated city will be 
enough to sweeten death, though every nerve 
should tingle with its agony. I die — ^but mine 
shall be the triumph ; yours the untold desola- 
tion. For every drop of blood that falls from 
my veins, your own shall pour in torrents ! Woe, 
unto thee, O Carthage ! I see thy homes and 
temples all in flames, thy citizens in terror, thy 
women wailing for the dead. Proud city ! thou 
art doomed ! the curse of Jove, a living, lasting 
curse is on thee ! The hungry waves shall lick 
the golden gates of thy rich palaces, and every 
brook run crimson to the sea. Rome, ^vith 
bloody hand, shall sweep thy heart-strings, and 
all thy homes shall howl in wdld response of 
anguish to her touch. Proud mistress of the sea, 
disrobed, uncrowned, and scourged — thus again 
do I devote thee, to the infernal gods ! 

*'Ngw, bring forth your tortures! Slaves! ^ 
while you tear this quivering flesh, remember ^ 
how often Regulus has beaten your armies and 
humbled your pride. Cut as he would have 
carved you ! Bum deep as his curse ! You 
may slay Regulus, but cannot conquer him. ' ' 

Elijah Kellogg. 



130 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



NELL. 



¥OU'RE a kind woman, Nan ! ay, kind and 
true! 
God will be good to faithful folk like you I 
You knew my Ned ! 
A better, kinder lad never drew breath. 

We loved each other true, and we were wed 
in church, like some who took him to his death j 

A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost 
His* senses when he took a drop too much. 
Drink did it all — drink made him mad when 
crossed — 
He was a poor man, and they're hard on such. 

O Nan ! that night ! that night ! 
When I was sitting in this very chair. 

Watching and waiting in the candlelight. 
And heard his foot come creaking up the stair, 
And turned, and saw him standing yonder, 
white 
And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair ! 
And when I caught his arm and called in 
fright. 
He pushed me, swore, and to the door he passed 
To lock and bar it fast. 

Then down he drops just like a lump of lead, 
Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter. 
And-— Nan ! — just then the light seemed growing 

brighter, 
And I could see the hands that held his head. 
All red \ all bloody red ! 

What could I do but scream ? He groaned to 
hear, 
Jumped to his feet and gripped me by the wrist; 
<*Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell ! " he hissed. 

And I was still, for fear. \ 
'* They' re after me — I've knifed a man!" he 

said. 
**Be still ! — the drink — drink did it I — ^he is 
dead!" 

Ihen we grew still, dead still, I couldn't 
weep ; 
' All I could do was cling to Ned and hark, 
And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep, 
But breathing hard and deep. 



grew I 



The candle flickered out — the room 
dark — 

And — Nan ! — although my heart was true and 
tried — 
When all g> ^w cold and dim, 
I shuddered— : for fear of them outside. 

But just afraic to be alone with him. 
**Ned! Ned!" I whispered — ^and he moaned 

and shook. 
But did not heed or look ! 

"Ned ! Ned ! speak, lad ! tell me it is not true !" 
At that he raised his head and looked so 
wild; 
Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw 

His arms around me, crying like a child. 
And held me close — and not a word was spoken. 
While I clung tighter to his heart, and pressed 
him, 
And did not fear him, though my heart was 
broken. 
But kissed his poor stained hands, and cried, 
and blessed him. 



Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold 

With sound o' falling rain — 
When I could see his face, and it looked old, 

Like the pinched face of one that dies in pain ; 
Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun. 
We never thought to hide away or run. 
Until we heard those voices in the street, 
That hurrying of feet. 
And Ned leaped up, and knew that they had 

come. 
**Run, Ned! " I cried, but he was deaf and 

dumb ! 
"Hide, Ned!" I screamed, and held him; 

"Hide thee, man! " 
He stared with bloodshot eyes, and hearkened 

Nan! 
And all the rest is like a dream — the sound 

Of knocking at the door — 
A rush of men — a struggle on the ground — 

A mist — a tramp — a roar ; 



I 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



131 



Tor when 1 got my senses back again, 

The room was empty — and my head went round I 

God help him ? God will help him ! Ay, no 
fear ! 
li was the drink, not Ned — he meant no 
wrong ; 
So kind ! so good ! — and I am useless here^ 

Now he is lost that loved me true and long. 
. . • That night before he died, 
I didn't cry-^ -my heart was hard and dried ; 
But when the clocks went ''one," I took my 
shawl 
To cover up my face, and stole away. 
And walked along the silent streets, where all 

Looked cold and still and gray. 
And on I went and stood in Leicester Square, 
But just as ''three " was sounded close at hand 

I started and turned east, before I knew, 
Then down Saint Martin's Lane, along tl^c 
Strand, 
And through the toll-gate on to Waterloo. 

Some men and lads went by. 

And turning round, I gazed, and watched *em 



Then felt that they were going to see him die. 
And drew my shawl more tight, and followed 
slow. 

More people passed me, a country cart with hay 
Stopped close beside me, and two or three 

Talked about // ! I moaned and crept away 1 

Next came a hollow sound I knew full well. 
For something gripped me round the heartl- 
and then 
There came the solemn tolling of a bell ! 

God! O God ! how could I sit close by. 
And neither scream nor cry? 

As if I had been stone, all hard and cold, 

I listened, listened, listened, still and dumb- 
While the folk murmured, and the death-bell 
tolled. 
And the day brightened, and his time had 
come. 
Till — Nan ! — all else was silent, but the knell 
Of the slow bell ! 

And I could only wait, and wait, and wait. 
And what I waited for I couldn't tell — 

At last there came a groaning deep and great- 
Saint Paul's struck "eight" — 

1 screamed, and seemed to turn to fire, and fell \ 

Robert Buchanan. 



THE LIGHTKEEPER'S DAUGHTER. 



HE pale moon hid her face; the glittering 

stars 
Retired above the blackness of the night. 
The wild winds moaned, as if some human soul 
In fetters bound was struggling to be free; 
The ocean leaped and swayed his long white 

arms 
Up in the darkness with a sullen roar. 
\cross the heavy gloom of night there came 
The faint light from the tower, and when the 

moon 
Peeped from her floating veil of clouds, she sent 
A gleam across the waters, rushing mad. 

Against the angry sky 
The lighthouse stood, whose beacon light fore- 
iold 



The danger to bold ships that neared the rocks 
While daylight slept. 

In the tower by the sea, there all alone. 
The keeper's pretty daughter trimmed the lamp. 
And as the water sparkled in the light, 
"God save the sailors on the sea," she prayed; 
"The night is wild; my father gone, and near 
Are rocks which vessels wreck when storms are 

high; 
I will not sleep, but watch beside the light. 
For some may call for help." 

And so she sat 
Beside the window o'er the sea, and scanned 
, With large dark eyes the troubled water's foai% 



I 



i32 



DESCRIPTIVE RECu'ATIONS. 



Unheeding as the wind her tresses tossed. 
Or spray baptized her brow. 

A muffled sound 
Trembles upon the air, above the storm; 
Why strain her eager eyes far in the night? 
Was it the wind, or but the ocean's heart 
Beating against the cHffs? 

Ah, no ! Ah, no ! 
It was the signal-gun — the cry for help ! 
Now seen, now lost, the lights upon the ship 
Glimmer above the wave. 

Her inmost soul, with anguish stirred, sobs out, 
"A vessel on the rocks, and none to save! '' 
Again that far, faint death-knell of the doomed 
Upon her young heart falls. * * They shall mot 

die! 
I rescue them, or perish in their grave! ** 
Her strong arms, nerved by heart long trained 
To suffer and to dare for highest good, 
Conquers in spite of warring elements ; 
The boat is launched; one instant does she 

pause 
And lift her soul in prayer. 'Tis silent, 
But angels hear, and bear it on their wings 
To the All-Father, and the strength comes down. 

The wind howls loud ; the cruel, sullen waves 
Toss the frail bark as children toss a toy; 
All nature tries to baffle one brave soul 
As, beautiful and bold, she still toils on. 
Unheeding all except one thought, one hope. 



She nears the vessel, beating * gainst the rocks; 
A wave sweeps o'er her, but her heart is stayed 
By cries for **help'* from hearts half dead with 

fear; 
Upon the tossing ship they watch and pray, 
While nearer draws deliverance. One m©re 

bound. 
The ship is reached, and not a moment lost. 
The boat is filled. Again she braves the sea. 
This time with precious freight, the while the 

waves. 
Thus cheated of their prey, mourn in revenge. 
The moon between the clouds in pity smiles. 
The waves are broken into tears above 
The boat of life ; resisting wind and wave. 
They near the land, an unseen Hand directs. 
And one eye, never sleeping, watches all. 

Upon the shore the fishers' wives knelt down 
And clasped their loved ones, given from the 

grave. 
Young children sobbed their gratitude, and clung 
To fathers they had never hoped to kiss; 
Strong men were not afraid of tears, which fell 
Like April rain, as with their wives and babes 
They knelt upon the bleak seashore, to pray. 
Up to the skies a glad thanksgiving rose ; 
The wind ceased wailing, and the stars came out; 
Joy filled all hearts, and noble Grace was blessed 
The earth grew brighter, for the angels sang. 
In heaven, to God a glad, sweet song of praise. 
Myra a. Goodwin. 



POPULAR ELECTIONS. 



IR, if there is any spectacle from the con- 
templation of which I would shrink with 
peculiar horror, it would be that of the 
great mass of the American people sunk into a 
profound apathy on the subject of their highest 
political interests. Such a spectacle would be 
more portentous to the eye of intelligent patriot- 
ism, than all the monsters of the earth, and 
fiery signs of the heavens, to the eye of tremb- 
ling superstition. If the people could be in- 
different to the fate of a contest for the presi- 



dency, they would be unworthy of freedom. If 
I were to perceive them sinking into this apathy, 
I would even apply the power of political galvan- 
ism, if such a power could be found, to rouse 
them from their fatal lethargy. 

Keep the people quiet I Peace ! peace ! Such 
are the whispers by which the people are to be 
lulled to sleep, in the very crisis of their highest 
concerns. Sir, "you make a solitude, and call 
it peace!'* Peace? 'Tis death! Take away 
all interest from the people, in the election ol 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



133 



their chief ruler, and liberty is no more. What 
sii, is to be the consequence ? If the people do 
not elect the President, somebody must. 

There is no special providence to decide the 
question. Who, then, is to make the election, 
and how will it operate ? You throw a general 
paralysis over the body politic, and excite a 
morbid action in particular members. The 
general patriotic excitement of the people, in 
relation to the election of the President, is as 
essential to the health and energy of the political 
system, as circulation of the blood is to the 
health and energy of the natural body. Check 
that circulation, and you inevitably produce 
local inflammation, gangrene, and ultimately 
death. 

Make the people indifferent, destroy their 



legitimate influence, and you communicate a 
morbid violence to the efforts of those who arc 
ever ready to assume the control of such affairs 
— the mercenary intriguers and interested office- 
hunters of the country. Tell me not, sir, of 
popular violence ! Show me a hundred political 
factionists — men who look to the election of a 
President as the means of gratifying their high or 
their low ambition — and I will show you the 
very materials for a mob ; ready for any desper- 
ate adventure connected with their common 
fortunes. The reason of this extraordinary 
excitement is obvious. It is a matter of self- 
interest, of personal ambition. The people can 
have no such motives. They look oiily to the 
interest and glory of the country. 

George M'Duffie. 



THE GLADIATOR. 



TILLNESS reigned in the vast amphi- 
^^S\ theatre, and from the countless thou- 
sands that thronged the spacious inclos- 
ure, not a breath was heard. Every tongue was 
mute with suspense, and every eye strained with 
anxiety toward the gloomy portal where the 
gladiator was momentarily expected to enter. 
At length the trumpet sounded, and they led him 
forth into the broad arena. There was no mark 
of fear upon his manly countenance, as with ma- 
jestic step and fearless eye he entered. He stood 
there, like another Apollo, firm and unbending 
as the rigid oak. His fine proportioned form 
was matchless, and his turgid muscles spoke his 
giant strength. 

**I am here," he cried, as his proud lip curled 
In scorn, **to glut the savage eye of Rome's 
proud populace. Aye, like a dog you throw me 
to a Wast; and what is my offense? Why, for- 
sooth, I am a Christian. But know, ye can not 
fright my soul, for it is based upon a foundation 
stronger than the adamantine rock. Know ye^ 
whose hearts are harder than the flinty stone, my 
heart quakes not with fear; and here I aver, I 
would not change conditions with the blood- 
6t*iixe4 Nero, crpwned though he be- ^ipt fgr the 



wealth of Rome. Blow ye your trumpet — I am 
ready." 

The trumpet sounded, and a long, low growl 
was heard to proceed from the cage of a half 
famished Numidian lion, situated at the farthest 
end of the arena. The growl deepened into a 
roar of tremendous volume, which shook the 
enormous edifice to its very centre. At that 
moment the door was thrown open, and the huge 
monster of the forest sprang from his den, with 
one mighty bound to the opposite side of the 
arena. His eyes blazed with the brilliancy of 
fire, as he slowly drew his length along the sand, 
and prepared to make a spring upon his formida- 
ble antagonist. The gladiator's eyes quailed 
not; his lip paled not; but he stood immovable 
as a statue, waiting the approach of his wary foe. 

At length, the lion crouched himself into an 
attitude for springing, and with the quickness oi 
lightning, leaped full at the throat of the gladi 
ator. But he was prepared for him, and bound 
ing lightly on one side, his falchion flashed tor a 
moment over his head, and in t>i^ next it wa^: 
deeply dyed in the purple blood of the monster. 
A roar of redoubled fury again resounded through 
the spacious amphitheatre, as the enraged aui- 



134 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



mal, mad with the anguish from the wound he 
had just received, wheeled hastily round, and 
sprang a second time at the Nazarene. 

Again was the falchion of the cool and intrepid 
gladiator deeply planted in the breast of his ter- 
rible adversary; but so sudden had been the 
^econd attack, that it was impossible to avoid the 
♦full impetus of his bound, and he staggered and 
^-^11 upon his knee. The monster's paw was 
upon his shoulder, and he felt its hot fiery breath 
upon his cheek, as it rushed through his wide 
distended nostrils. The Nazarene drew a short 
dagger from his girdle, and endeavored to re- 
gain his feet. But his foe, aware of his design, 
precipitating himself upon him, threw him with 
violence to the ground. 
i The excitement of the populace was now 

wrought up to a high pitch, and they waited the 
result with breathless suspense. A low growl of 
satisfaction now announced the noble animal's 



triumph, as he sprang fiercely upon ms prostrate 
enemy. But it was of short duration ; the dag- 
ger of the gladiator pierced his vitals, and togethei 
they rolled over and over, across the broad 
arena. Again the dagger drank deep of the mon- 
ster's blood, and again a roar of anguish rever- 
berated through the stately edifice. 

The Nazarene, now watching his opportunityj 
sprang with the velocity of thought from the ter- 
rific embrace of his enfeebled antagonist, and 
regaining his falchion, which had fallen to the 
ground in the struggle, he buried it deep in the 
heart of the infuriated beast. The noble king of 
the forest, faint from the loss of blood, concen- 
trated all his remaining strength in one mighty 
bound; but it was too late; the last blow had 
been driven home to the centre of life, and his 
huge form fell with a' mighty crash upon the 
arena, amid the thundering acclamations of the 
populace. 



GINEVRA. 



thou shouldest ever come by choice or 

chance 
To Modena, where still religiously 
Among her ancient trophies is preserved 
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs 
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine), 
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate, 
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. 
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, 
Will long detain thee ; * ^ * a summer sun 
Sets ere one-half is seen ; but, ere thou go, 
Enter the house — prythee, forget it not — 
And look awhile upon a picture there. 
*Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, 
• The very last of that illustrious race, 
\ Done by Zampieri — but by whom I care not. 
He, who observes it — ere he passes on, 
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, 
That he may call it up, when far away. 

She sits, inclining forward as to speak. 
Her lips half open, and her finger up, 
^g though she said '* Beware 1 '* her vest of ^old 



Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head 

to foot. 
An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; 
And on Ler brow, fairer than alabaster, 
A coronet of pearls. But then her face, 
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth. 
The overflowings of an innocent heari; — 
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, 
Like some wild melody ! 

Alone it hangs. 
Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion. 
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, 
But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
With Scripture stories from the life of Christ ; 
A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
The ducal robes of some old ancestor. , 

That by the way — it may be true or false — 
But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not, 
When thou hast heard the tale they told me 

there. 
She was an only child ; from infancy 
The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire. 
Her Mother dying of the gift she ^ave^ 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



135 



That precious gift, what else remained to him ? 

The young Ginevra was his all in life, 

Still as she grew, for ever in his sight ; 

A.nd in her fifteenth year became a bride. 

Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 

Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress. 
She was all gentleness, all gaiety. 
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. 
But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; 
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time. 
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; 
And in the lustre of her youth, she gave 
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 

Great was the joy ; but at the bridal feast. 
When all sat down the Bride was wanting there. 
Nor was she to be found J Her father cried, 
' * ' Tis but to make a trial of our love ! ' ' 
And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, 
And soon from guest to guest tne panic spread. 
' Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, 
Laughing and looking back and flying still, 
Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger. 
But now, alas ! she was not to be found ; 
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed. 
But that she was not. Weary of his life, 
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith 



Flung it away in battle with a Turk. 
Orsini lived ; and long was to be seen 
And old man wandering as in quest of some- 
thing, 
Something he could not find — he knew not what. 
When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers 
Fu/1 fifty years were passed, and all forgot, 
When on an idle day, a day of search 
' Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, 
That mouldering chest was noticed ; and ' twas 

said 
By one as young, as thoughtless as Genevra, 
* '■ Why not remove it from its lurking place ? * * 
' Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way 
It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton. 
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, 
A golden clasp; clasping a shred of gold. 
All else had perished — save a nuptial ring. 
And a small seal, her mother's legacy. 
Engraven with a name, the name of both, 
*' Ginevra. ' ' — There then had she found a grave ^ 
Withir that chest had she concealed herself. 
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; 
When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there, 
Fastened her down forever ! 

Samuel Rogers. 



THE DYNAMITER'S DAUGHTER. 



/^^u^NUFFLED tones in secret conclave 
If I JT ^^ ^^ deeds already done; 
J "^ Ruthless orders executed 
Heedless of the dangers run ; 
Bringing ruin, death, and terror. 

Only two short days before; 
Now the lots are cast to settle 

Names for two explosions more. 
Breathless silence while the chairman 

Speaks in accents whispered low, 
**Netherson and Stowe are chosen. 

Three days hence they strike the blow.' 

One by one they leave the meeting, 

Netherson his home to seek ; 
Through the slumbering city by-ways. 



Facing fitful night winds bleak. 
Furtively through shadows stealing, 

Cast by lofty buildings near; 
Like an awful spirit watchful. 

High above one star burns clear; 
While beyond the narrow opening. 
Robed in mystery by the gloom. 
Stem as sentinels on duty. 

Towers and spires forbidding loom. 

Visions lurid chase each other 
Through his terror-heated brain; 

Dark and darker seems the prospect. 
All regrets he knows are vain. 

Easy 'twas to plan for others, 
Npw the work his pwn becomes 5 



136 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



Must he steep his hands in murder? 

How the thought his heart benumbs? 
Must he cast all pity from him; 

Must he crush each feeling mild? 
Kill, aye, die, yet never falter? 

Then he thought upon his child. 

Morning came; she stood beside him. 

Knowing naught of what was near; 
Dimpled cheeks in sunny tresses, 

Eyes like sparkling fountains clear. 
''Father," gently speaks the maiden, 

While her arms his form embrace, 
'*In the paper I've been reading," 

Something blanched her glowing face, 
*'How some men explosive hiding. 

Cruel harm have done, and wrong ; 
Wounding people poor and helpless, 

Fighting not the great and strong. 

"Father, dear, it seems so dreadful! 

And I hear the people talk, 
'Curse the hands that work such evil,* 

And I dread abroad to walk; 
It were well if they were punished," 

And her voice more awesome grew; 
"I'd be glad to know they'd caught them, 

Yes, dear father, so would you." 
Then she kissed his chilly forehead. 

With a kiss impassioned, warm ; 
Knew not that within his bosom. 

She had fanned a raging storm. 

Then she went to school and left him; 

Soon forgot the evil thing. 
All alone, she thought she left him, 

But her words incessant ring 
Through and through his inmost being, 

Peopling the teeming air 
With the forms of fiendish creatures, 

Circling near him everywhere; 
Laughing, jibing, taunting, mocking. 

Flashing on him eyes of flame. 
Goading him to desperation, 

Hurrying on to darkest shame. 



Slowly speed the days of waiting, 

Came the fated hour at last; 
Netherson had gained his station, 

Stowe to his had safely passed. 
There deposited his missile. 

On a little distance went. 
Scarce a pause, a booming shudder 

Through the startled air was sent. 
Stones, and bricks, and glass came falling, 

Dust clouds filled the air around ; 
And when men could search the ruins, 

In their midst a child was found. 



Stricken down in girlhood's morning. 

Tender, delicate, and fair. 
Breathing stilly but crushed and mangled. 

Blood-stains dyed the flaxen hair, 
Tenderly strong arms upraised her, 

Near at hand was willing aid; 
Soon their palpitating burden 

In the hospital was laid; 
But the man who wrought the evil. 

Wist not who was hurt or killed; 
Fled in silence, never heeding 

Whether beds or graves were filled. 



Scathless from his coward's exploits 

Netherson his home has gained. 
Evening shadows fallen round it, 

Dark and Voiceless it remained. 
Fearing first to meet his daughter, 

Now her absence wakes his dread. 
Has some evil overwhelmed her? 

Does she know his hands are red 
With his fellow creature's life blood? 

Does she shrink from his embrace? 
Seems once more that gloomy chamber 

Peopled by a fiendish race. 



Night crept on with gloomy silence; 

"Oh, my daughter, come again! " 
But no voice, no footsteps answer. 

While he sees the crimson stain. 
Through the midnight darkness glowing, 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



137 



On his hands like flaming light; 
There she sat enchained in silence, 

Spell-bound by the ghastly sight; 
Like a culprit iron fettered, 

There he sat, nor moved, nor spoke ; 
Night was passed, the light grew broader; 

Once again the world awoke. 



Gently gJ.owed the springtide morning. 

Bringing hopes of love and life. 
Though it snapped the spell of silence. 

Could not soothe the inward strife, 
Could not calm the wayward passions. 

Fiercely warring in his mind ; 
Hate of power, the dread of equals, 

Fear lest others would unwind. 
Thread by thread, the secret meshes, 

Woven by his own poor skill ; 
Self, and worse, his child in danger. 

Wilder grew the tumult still. 



Watch him reading now the paper: 

** Yesterday at four o'clock. 
Several streets were rudely shaken, 

Damaged by the sudden shock 
Caused by dynamite explosion. 

When they cleared the wreck away, 
* Neath the debris, badly wounded, 

Nearly dead a sweet girl lay ; 
Long and full her flaxen tresses ; 

To the hospital conveyed — " 
"Quickly all the truth flashed on him. 

Then aside the sheet was laid. 



She, the only one that loved him. 

Loved with fond afl'ection she. 
Should he run the risk to seek her. 

Or from quick detection flee ? 
Others grieved, and others suffered. 

Now the plot had wounded him ; 
She, his darling, suffering, dying. 

Every other sense was dim ; 
Like a lion by hunters driven. 



Held at bay he madly stood ; 
Till upon him flashed her features. 
And the hair all stained with blood. 



Long he pondered, undecided ; 

Then o'erborne by impulse strong. 
Formed a hasty resolution ; 

Hurriedly he passed along. 
Sought the place, the ward discovered^ 

There he knelt beside the bed ; 
And the last faint rays of sunlight 

Fell upon his prostrate head ; 
Wan the cheeks so lately ruddy, 

Lost was every golden tress ; 
One brief glance, he could not bear it, 

Down he bent in blank distress. 



"Weep not, father, darling father. 

Yes, the pain grows very bad ; 
Long with you I may not linger ;^ 

Lonely you will feel and sad. 
Father, I forgive the people — 

Do you think they'll catch the men?| 
Sure I am, I never wronged them. 

Tell them, father, tell them then — 
Kiss me, father, I am dying ; 

Oh, so dark — now bright it seems ; 
Listen, father, are they singing ? 

Angels, like I've seen in dreams?*' 



Tender words, how deep they cut him. 

One long kiss, he left the bed, 
Daylight, life, and love seemed dying ; 

From the building as he fled 
Two strong men his progress hindered ; 

Vain to make attempt at flight ; 
Quickly to the station hurried. 

Walls and doors shut out the light, 
Baffled, thwarted, captured, prisoned. 

As upon him close the doors, 
Freed from pain, his daughter's spirit. 

Angel-guarded, heavenward soars. 

JP. StanSvAY jACKSOJi 



i' 



138 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 



HE warrior bowed his crested head, and 
'^) tamed his heart of fire, 

And sued the hearty king to free his long- 
imprisoned sire : 
*^ I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my 

captive train, 
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! — oh, 
break my Other's chain ! " 

**Rise, rise! even now thy father comes a 

ransomed man, this day : 
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet 

him on his way. ' ' 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded 

on his steed, 
A.nd urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's 

foamy speed. 

And lo ! from far, as on they pressed, there came 

a glittering band. 
With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a 

leader in the land ; 
''Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in 

very truth, is he. 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned 

so long to see. ' ' 

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, 

his cheek's blood came and went; 
He reached that gray -haired chieftain's side, 

and there, dismounting, bent ; 
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand 

he took, — 
What was there in its touch that all his fiery 

spirit shook? 

That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it dropped 

from his like lead : 
He looked up to the face above — the face was of 

the dead ! 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow — the brow 

was fixed and white ; 
He met at last his father's eyes — but in them 

was no sight I 



Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed, but 

who could paint that gaze ? 
They hushed their very hearts, that saw its^ 

horror and amaze ; 
They might have chained him, as before that 

stony form he stood, 
For the power was stricken from his arm, and 

from his lip the blood. 

* * Father ! " at length he murmured low, and 

wept like childhood then — 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of 

warlike men !— - 
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his 

young renown, — 
He flung his falchion from his side, and in the 

dust sat down. 

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his 

darkly mournful brow, 
*'No more, there is no more," he said, ''to lift 

the sword for now. — 
My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father 

— oh ! the worth. 
The glory and the loveliness are passed away 

from earth ! 

' ' I thought to stand where banners waved, my 

sire ! beside thee yet — 
I would that fAere our kindred blood on Spain's 

free soil had met ! 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then — for 

thee my fields were won, — 
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though 

thou hadst no son I " 

Then, starting from the ground once more, he 
seized the monarch's rein, 

Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the 
courtier train ; 

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rear- 
ing war-horse led. 

And sternly set them face to face — the king 
before the dead 1-— 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



139 



*'Came I not forth upon th.y pledge, my father's 

hand to kiss? — 
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell 

me what is this ! 
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought — give 

answer, where are they ? — 
«— If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send 

life through this cold clay 1 

**Into these glassy eyes put light — Be still! 

keep down thine ire, — 
Bid these white lips a blessing speak — this earth 

is not my sire ! 



Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom 

my blood was shed, — 
Thou canst not — and a king ! His dust be 

mountains on thy head ! ' ' 

He loosed the steed ; his slack hand fell- -«por? 

the silent face 
He cast one long, deep, troubled look— then 

turned from that sad place : 
His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in 

martial strain, — 
His banner led the spears no more, amidst the 

hills of Spain. 

Felicia D. Hemans, 



BURNING OF THE LEXINGTON. 



JGHT rested on the sea — the moon alone, 
O'er the wide waste of rolling waters 
shone ; 

The glorious sun had sunk in western skies, 
Ajid the dim stars looked down like angels' eyes, 
As if they wept in heaven the approaching doom. 
And dropped their tears o'er that untimely tomb ! 

The warm hand pressed with many a generous 

token, 
The long embrace once ^'er, and farewell 

spoken, 
The buoyant boat swift leaves the crowded shore ; 
To gaze on forms they shall behold no more. 
Upon the deck, friends strain their anxious eyes. 
Till evening drops her curtain o'er the skies. 
Now o'er the waters, where the wanderers sleep, 
Went forth that train upon the treacherous deep ; 
They thought of friends to whom they should 

return. 
Nor thought, alas ! those friends so soon would 

mourii. 

In blissful dreams they think no more they roam. 
But tread again the happy halls of home ; 
Childhood and Age, and Beauty brightly blest, 
Thoughtless of danger on the dark waves rest ; 
When lo ! there comes upon the ear a cry, 
And the word Fire ! sweeps roaring through the 
sky. 



The red flames flash upon the rolling flood, 
Till the wild waters seem one sea of blood ; 
On the cold blast dread Azrael comes in ire, 
Waves his dark wings, and fans the fearful fire ; 
Wild o'er the deck and with disheveled hair. 
Rush the sad victims, shrieking in despair : 
*' Where is my son? " the frantic father cries, 
And '* Where my sire?" the weeping son re- 
plies. 

Amid that scene of terror and alarms, 
Dear woman, wailing, throws her ivory arms j 
And shall she perish ? nay, one effort saves — 
Quick, launch the boats upon the boiling waves ; 
They're lost ! O God ! they sink to rise no more! 
A hundred voices mingle in one roar. 

I'rom post to post the afl'righted victims fly- 
While the red flames illumine sea and sky ; 
The piteous look of infancy appeals 
For help, but oh ! what heart in danger feels ? 
None save a mother's ; see her clasp her boy ! 
Floating she looks to find her second joy; 
She sees him now, and with a transport wild. 
Save ! save ! oh save ! she cries, my drowning 

child ! 
She lifts her arms, and in the next rude wave 
The mother and her children find a grave ; 
Locked in her arms her boy sinks down to rest, 
His head he pillows on her clay-cold breast ; 



140 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



A mother's love not death itself can part. 
She hugs her dying children to her heart ; 
And fain would perish more than once to save 
Her blooming boys from ocean's awful grave. 

A sail ! a sail ! a hundred voices rave — 

In the dim distance, on the brilliant wave, 

She comes, and hope cheers up those hearts 

again, 
They shall be saved — alas ! that hope is vain ! 
The dastard wretch beholds the imploring crew. 
Looks on the blazing boat, then bids adieu ; 
Leaves them to perish in a watery grave, 
Rather than stretch his coward hand to save. 
Go, thou inhuman being ; be thy name 
A demon's watchword, and the mark of shame; 
Go teach the tiger what to thee is given, 
And be the scoff of man, the scorn of Heaven; 
Be all those mourning mothers' tears thy own, 
Till human feelings melt thy heart of stone. 



Now o'er the ice-cold sea the victims swiiix, 
Their limbs are helpless, and their eyes grow 

dim ; 
With cries for help they yield their lingering 

breath. 
As one by one they close their eyes in death v 
The blazing wreck a moment shines more 

bright, 
One cry is heard, she sinks, and all is night. 
The moon hath set — a darkness shrouds the 

lee, 
No voice is heard upon that moonless sea ; 
Soft pity spreads her wings upon the gale, 
And few are left to tell the dreadful tale. 
From down-beds warm, and from th^ir joyous 

sleep, 
Full many an eye afar shall wake to weep ; 
Full many a heart a hapless parent mourn. 
From friends and home, alas ! untimely torn. 

MiLFORD Bard. 



POMPEIL 



i^ND lo, a voice from Italy ! It comes like 
u^ the stirring of the breeze from the moun- 
J tains ! It floats in majesty like the echo 

of the thunder! It breathes solemnity like a 
sound from the tombs ! Let the nations hearken ; 
for the slumber of ages is broken, and the buried 
voice of antiquity speaks again from the gray 
'oiins of Pompeii. 

Roll back the tide of eighteen hundred years. 
At the foot of the vine-clad Vesuvius stands a 
royal city; the stately Roman walks its lordly 
streets, or banquets in the palaces of its splendor. 
The bustle of busied thousands is there; you 
may hear it along thronged quays ; it raises from 
the amphitheatre and the forum. It is the home 
of luxury, of gayety, and of joy. There toged 
royalty drowns itself in dissipation ; the lion 
roars over the martyred Christian ; and the 
bleeding gladiator dies at the beck of applauding 
spectators. It is a careless, a dreaming, a devoted 
city. 

There is a blackness in the horizon, and the 
earthquake is rioting in the bowels of the moun- 



tain! Hark! a roar, a crash! and the very 
foundations of the eternal hills are belched forth 
in a sea of fire ! Woe for that fated city ! The 
torrent comes surging like the mad ocean; it 
boils above wall and tower, palace and fountain, 
and Pompeii is a city of tombs ! 

Ages roll on; silence, darkness, and desolation 
are in the halls of buried grandeur. The forum 
is voiceless; and the pompous mansions are ten- 
anted by skeletons ! Lo ! other generations live 
above the dust of long lost glory ; and the slum- 
ber of the dreamless city is forgotten. 

Pompeii beholds a resurrection! As sum- 
moned by the blast of the first trumpet, she hath 
shaken from her beauty the ashes of centuries, 
and once more looks forth upon the world, 
sullied and somber, but interesting still. Again 
upon her arches, her courts, and her colonnades 
the sun lingers in splendor, but not as erst, when 
the reflected luster from her marbles dazzled like 
the glory of his own true beam. 

There, in their gloomy boldness, stand her 
palaces, but the song of carousal is hushed for-* 



i 




I 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



141 



ever. You may behold the places of her 
fountains, but you will hear no murmur ; they 
are as the water-courses, of the desert. There, 
too, are her gardens ; but the barrenness of long 
antiquity is theirs. You may 'stand in her 
amphitheater, and you shall read utter desolation 
on its bare and dilapidated walls. 

Pompeii ! moldering relic of a former world ! 
Strange redemption from the sepulcher ! How 
vivid - are the classic memories that cluster 
around thee ! Thy loneliness is rife with 
tongues j for the shadows of the mighty are thy 
sojourners ! Man walks thy desolated and for- 
saken streets, and is lost in his dreams of other 
days. 

He converses with the genius of the past, and 
the Roman stands as freshly recalled as before 
the billow of lava had stiffened above him. A 
Plinv, a Sallust, a Trajan, are in his musing, and 



he visits their very homes. Venerable and 
eternal city ! The storied urn to a nation's 
memory ! A disentombed and risen witness for 
the dead ! Every stone of thee is consecrated 
and immortal. Rome was ; Thebes was ; Sparta, 
was ; thou wast, and art still. No Goth or 
Vandal thundered at thy gates, or reveled in thy 
spoil. 

Man marred not thy magnificence. Thc'»» 
wast scathed by the finger of Him who alone 
knew the depth of thy violence and crime. 
Babylon of Italy ! thy doom was not revealed to 
thee. No prophet was there, when thy towers 
were tottering and the ashy darkness obscured 
thy horizon, to construe the warning. The 
wrath of God was upon thee heavily; in the 
volcano was the '* hiding of his power;" and, 
like thine ancient sisters of the plain, thy judg- 
ment was sealed in fire ! 



WHAt IS A GENTLEMAN. 



W 



HAT is a gentleman ? Is it a thing 
Decked with a scarf-pin, a chain, and 
a ring. 

Dressed in a suit of immaculate style, 
Sporting an eye-glass, a lisp, and a smile? 
Talking of operas, concerts, and balls, 
Evening assemblies and afternoon calls, 
Sunning himself at ''At Homes " and bazars. 
Whistling mazurkas, and smoking cigars ? 

What is a gentleman ? Say, is it one 
Boasting of conquests and deeds he has done? 
One who unblushingly glories to speak 
Things which should call up a flush to his cheek? 
One, who, whilst railing at actions unjust, 
Robs some young heart of its pureness and trust; 
Scorns to steal money, or jewels, or wealth. 
Thinks it no crime to take honor by stealth ? 

What is a gentleman ? Is it not one 
Knowing instinctively what he should shun, 
Speaking no word that can injure or pain, 
Spreading no scandal and deep' ning no stain ? 



One who knows how to put each at his ease. 
Striving instinctively always to please ; 
One who can tell, by a glance at your cheek, 
When to be silent, and when he should speak? 

What is a gentleman ? Is it not one 
Honestly eating the bread he has won. 
Living in uprightness, fearing his God, 
Leaving no stain on the path he has trod. 
Caring not whether his coat may be old. 
Prizing sincerity far above gold, 
Recking not whether his hand may be hard. 
Stretching it boldly to grasp its reward? 

What is a gentleman ? Say, is it birth 
Makes a man noble, or adds to his worth? 
Is there a family tree to be had 
Spreading enough to conceal what is bad ? 
Seek out the man who has God for his Guide;; 
Nothing to blush for, and nothing to hide ; 
Be he a noble, or be he in trade. 
This is the gentleman Nature has made. 



M2 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
A BOY HERO. 




*ER **The Devil's Gulch," a chasm wide, 
Sprung a mighty bridge; a roaring 
tide 

, Rushed headlong through the depths below. 
From a watch-tower high, a shining glow 
The watchman,' nightly, made to shed 
Its warning signals of green or red, 
^s the mighty engine thundered down. 
At morn and eve, from a far-off town. 

A great storm rages o'er steep and fell, 

And ^'The Devil's Gulch" is a roaring hell 

Of waters, foaming wild and white. 

While darkness deepens into night. 

Carl Springel takes his poor old crutch 

(The watchman'? son, he's lame, and Dutch), 

And goes forth, hobbling through the night. 

Though his steps are heavy, his heart is light. 

For he carries to his father dear 

His evening meal and hei^^ful cheer. 

What cares he for the wind and rain ? 

First, love and duty, then home again. 

Now he rounds the curve of the mountain 

track — 
What is that he hears ? — a deafening crack ! 
Then a rumbling crash > through the blinding 

storm — ' 
The bridge ! oh, the bridge ? the bridge is gone I 
**Oh, father ! father !^^ hear him cry, 



But his voice is lost in the howling sky ; 
And the train — the train is speeding down, 
With its living load from the distant town ( 
Though bitter grief his heart doth rack, 
He sees the hand-car on the track. 
He sees the lantern's blood-red gleam. 
He hears the engine's whistle scream! 

He climbs on the car ! the crank he turns, 
First slow, then faster ; his heart it burns 
With anguish, sorrow, hopes and fears ; 
He tugs and strains ? and now he hears 
The train come thundering through the night, 
And now he sees th^ head-light bright. 
He knows he's numbered with the dead ! 
But waves the lantern above his head. 

He shouts : **The bridge [ the bridge is down t 
The bridge is down ! the bridge is — " 
Drowned in the awful din of train and storm. 
The engine strikes ! and his mangled form 
Is dashed a hundred feet aside — 
But the train stops short of the roaring tide. 

In Germany the tale is told. 
On a tombstone white, in words of gold : 
**Carl Springel' s grave. 
Aged fourteen. 
The crippled hero and martyr gave 
His life two hundred lives to save." 



SAL PARKER'S GHOST. 



OW far to Oaklands now, Sir? Well, i 
should think it were five mile quite ; 
But I sha'n't be long a-coaching yer 
there, this beautiful moonlight night. 
She's* as good a hoss as the Squire has got, is 

this old mare, yer know ; 
Just feel her mouth, and give her her head, and 
then she's bound to go. 

Can I give yei a song to pass the time ? Well, 
no j I can holler and shout ; 



But I wam't in the way, yer see, when theygl\ 

the singing faces out ; 
I should frighten you and the hoss as well, i: 

tried my 'vw)cal skill. 
So I think I'll say — Kim up, yer brutes i 

teach yer to shy, I will 

What was the most remarkablest thing that e\ : 

happened to me ? 
Well, I'm bio wed if I know, sir, and that's C 

truth ; and I kind o' fancy, yer see^ 



^i 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



143 



Vou're looking out for a bit o' life, as' 11 do to 

put in a tale, 
For I heerd 'em say 'twas a littery gent as I'd 

got to meet at the rail. 

Ha, ha! you're right, sir. I wam't brought up 
in this present crib of mine, 
\ Which driving a hansom cab in town has bin 
j . my reg'lar line; 

! And that reminds me of sumthink once that was 
werry strange and queer— 
You may put fkaf down in a book, if yer like, 
for 'tis true as I'm sittin' here. 

When I fust went up, to London, yer see, as a 

hulking country lad, 
I got a helper's place in a mews, work heavy 

and wages bad ; 
But I jest kept on in my ploddin' way, for I 

didn't mean to be beat, 
rill, step by step, I'd rose in life to a hansom 

cabman's seat. 

And then I married — at last, at last ! — for me 

and my pretty Sal 
Had bin sweethearts in the dear old days, as 

country boy and gal; 
Ajid she promised to wait for me when I went 

to London to try my fate. 
With the thought of her in her country home to 

keep me steady and straight. 

I used to wonder like at times whatever it was 
she could see, 
j Such a wee, sweet, pretty, modest lass, in a 

great rough fellow like me ; 
I 3ut she left her country lanes, dear heart, and 
her sweetest smiles she brought 
To brighten the cabman's happy home in a 
dingy London court. 

And we was werry happy, we was ; and I tnink 

we was happier still 
When there come a little baby to nuss, and a 

little mouth to fill ! 



It ain't all pleasure, a cabman's life, but when 

hard thoughts 'ud come, 
I'd only to think of the wee bit babe, and the 

bonnie wife at home. 

So things went on for a couple o' years, in 

humble comfort and joy ; 
With two little children in our home — a gal and 

a baby boy ! 
When the fever come to our httle court on a 

sudden like, yer know. 
And the light o' my happy home went out, and 

my heart was broke at a blow ! 

I'd wanted the missus and bairns to go to her 

mother's house to stay. 
But she wouldn't hear of leaving me, not even 

for a day. 
So we just kept on, and lef<" it to God ; and Sal 

she was alius found 
Acting a Sister o' Mercy's part to the poor sick 

cfeeturs around. 

But when the fever fust broke out she'd made 

me promise, yer see. 
With her arms about my neck, one night as she 

sat upon my knee. 
That if so be she was took herself, for the 

children's sake and my own, 
I'd get her into horspital at once to take her 

chance alone. 

'Twas a trying time, and no mistake, with death 

a-hovering near ; 
And I used to watch the missus and kids \vith a 

jealous kind o' fear, 
Till I noticed one day, that her bonnie face 

looked flushed and heavy-eyed. 
And ah ! she was taken bau that night a-lyin by 

my side. 

I thought me then of the promise I'd made, and 
mp heart was strangely stirred, 

But the poor dear wife was braver than me, and 
«he made me keep my word ; 



L 



144 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



She went without a good-by to the bairns, 
though it almost broke her heart, 

And wouldn't even give me a kiss when the time 
had come to part. 

I got some neighbors to look to the bairns, and 

I went to my work next day. 
But how I got through the weary time 'twould 

puzzle me to say, 
For I seemed quite dazed and misty-like, as 

though in a dream or worse, 
And a leaden dread of sorrow to come hung 

over me like a curse. 

She'd made me promise I wouldn't try to see 

her while she was bad. 
But of course I was alius about the place what 

little leisure 1 had. 
And when they said she was getting round, and 

'ud soon be home once more, 
I thought to myself that welcomer words I'd 

never heerd before. 

But the sixth day arter she left her home, I got 
a letter as said — 

God, it makes me shudder now! — that my 

Sally was dead — was dead ! 
She was dead of the fever, and corfined down 

forever from mortal sight. 
And if I'd see her put in her grave I'd have to 

come that night. 

What followed was like a dreadful dream. I lost 
my head, I think; 

1 know there was tearful women about, who 

brought me food and drink; 
And I had some black put on to my hat, and was 

taken out somewhere. 
And I stood at night by an open grave, and saw 

a coffin there. 

They brought me home, and by slow degrees it 

all grew clear and plain. 
And I mind me well of the passionate tears that 

I fancy saved my brain; 



And I fell on my knees beside the bed — thougu 
I thought my heart would break — 

And prayed for strength to bear it all for her 
little children's sake. 



Her children's sake! The two wee bairns, who 

was orphans now, yer know, 
The neighbors had took 'em away for a bit— 

and perhaps it was better so; 
God knows that better or truer friends had never 

man before; 
Ah, 'tis Httle you gentlefolks can know of the 

care of the poor for the poor! 

A week had passed and I sat one night, by the 

dying fire alone, 
A brooding and broken-hearted man, whose 

hope in life was gone, 
When I heerd a sudden footfall without, that 

kind o' startled me then. 
For 'twas like the step of the dear dead wife 

who would never walk agen. 

I thought 'twas a neighbor about, maybe, and 
went to the window near. 

But I started back, with a bitter cry and a sud- 
den frightful fear. 

For there, with its wild white face to the pane, 
I saw as plain as life. 

An awful something a-peering in, in the likeness 
of my wife ! 

It beckoned to me with its phantom hand, and 
I felt that my hour was nigh, 

And I soon must join my Sally again in the 
better home on high. 

When, ah, the door iiew open, and there, oh 
there, it stood on the floor! 

And a sudden mist come over me, and I recol- 
lect no more. 

When I come to myself I was lying down on ouj 

bit of a sofy there. 
And the neighbors was gathered about me tht 

with a pitying, startled air; 



ii 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



145 



1 felt quite dazed and misty at fust, and I 

swooned agen almost 
Wlien the terrible truth come back to me — the 

open door and the ghost ! 

They tried to soothe me, the women did, and 
» said I must bear it well, 

But there 'd been a sad mistake, and they'd got 

some happy news to tell; 
Then I heerd a sudden sob and a cry, that come 

from behind the rest, 
4nd my Sally was kneeling by my side, with 

her head upon my breast ! 

i{< ^ ijc ^ J}C 

Her story was simple. With care and skill she'd 

begun to mend apace, 
So was moved to the conwalescent ward for 

another to take her place; 
But in the hurry her namev yer see, was left up 

over the bed. 



So that when the other poor creetur sunk they 
thought it was Sal was dead ! 

JjC ?jC J^ pjC ^jC 

I'm a roughish sort myself, I am, but I leave 

yer to understand 
What my feelings was as we sat that night 

a-talking hand in hand. 
With the light of my life brought suddenly back. 

when all seemed shadder and gall, 
And my heart aglow with passionate thanks to 

the merciful Giver of all. 

But I'd had enough of yer London courts, and 
we both was shaky and queer; 

So I wrote for a crib as was advertised by the 
good old master here. 

And here's the lodge, with Sally herself a wait- 
ing to open the gate — 

Hi, Sal! yer may cook them bloaters now; I'll 
be in directly, mate 1 

Edwin Coller. 



FOUNDERING OF THE DOLPHIN. 



^O ruffling wind or howling storm dis- 
turbed the placid sea, 
No rocky cliff or hidden reef lay on the 
Dolphin's lee. 
The setting sun's last rays transformed the sea 

to crimson light. 
The failing breeze scarce forced the ship across 
the waters bright. 

Fair, fair the prospect ; naught but sky the fair 

horizon bound ; 
The brooding stillness was unbroken by e'en the 

slightest sound, 
Save where, near by, a school of fish disported 

in the wr>ves 
Like recreant mermaids, truant from their pearly 

ocean caves. 

The bright tints deepened on the sea — then 
faded — as the sun 

In dazzling glory disappeared beneath the hori- 
zon. 
10 



Then night stole on, and overhead each consteI= 
lation bright 

Arose and shone in splendor through the beau- 
teous tropic night. 

As when the cloud rose from the sea, in size 

like human hand. 
So far away a form arose like mist from distant 

land; 
But all so dim and specter-like, so indistinct and 

small. 
One, through the darkness, scarce might tell if 

it were cloud at all. 

But larger grew the o'erspreading cloud— it 

veiled the dark blue sky ; 
The vaulted heaven's bright eyes of fire wer^ 

hidden from the eye ; 
The sea grew black ; the lowering sky o'erhung 

like funeral pall ; 
And onward toward the Dolphin driven, came h 

black watery wall. 



146 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



•*A11 hands on deck ! ' ' the boatswain piped ; 

* 'Aloft ! " the captain cried ; 
" Furl quickly all the light sails, we shall yet 

the storm outride ! 
Stow fore and mizzen courses, and close-reef the 

great mainsail ! 
Stow jib and top-sails — ^helmsman, put the ship 

before the gale ! ' ' 

Meanwhile, in majesty, the sea came rushing on 
behind : 

It struck the ship — she righted — then paid off 
before the wind ; 

The ocean, just before so calm, now heaved, a 
raging main, 

And swiftly sped the Dolphin on before the hur- 
ricane. 

A thousand voices seenled to scream through 

every splintered sail ; 
A thousand shrieking demons through the rigging 

seemed to wail ; 
And o'er the ship the foaming sea from stem to 

stern was poured ; 
Before the blast the tall mainmast went crashing 

by the board. 



The morning dawned, but scarce the sun could 

pierce the dark'ning cloud 
Which hung above the inky sea, — a heavy sable 

shroud ; 
And only served, the pale, dim light, to show 

how grand, how high 
The billows rolled, reflecting dark the color of 

the sky. 

The hurricane increased as though its rage could 

ne'er be quenched ; 
The rudder, with a fearful shock, was from its 

fastenings wrenched. 
It flashed alike on every one — the ship must be 

their grave. 
For now she drifted helpless at the mercy of the 

wave. 

A mighty sea rose at her stem — foam dripped 

from off its breast. 
And death, destruction lurked beneath its white 

and curling crest ; 
It hung a moment o'er the ship, then fell with 

sullen roar, 
A surge — a whirlpool in the sea — a blank, and 

all was o'eir 

C. E, Reed. 



MOUNTAINS. 



/^V^OUNTAINS ! who was your builder? 
1^1 1^ Who laid your awful foundations in 
J the central fires, and piled your rocks 

and snow-capped summits among the clouds ? 
Who placed you in the gardens of the world, 
like noble altars, on which to offer the sacrificial 
gifts of many nations? 

Who reared your rocky walls in the barren 
desert, like towering pyramids, like monumental 
I mounds, like giants' graves, like dismantled piles 
of royal ruins, telling a mournful tale of glory, 
once bright, but now fled forever, as flee the 
dreams of a midsummer's night? Who gave 
you a home in the islands of the sea, — those 
emeralds that gleam among the waves, — those 
stars of ocean that mock the beauty of the stars 
of night ? 



Mountains ! I know who built you. It v/sw 
God ! His name is written on your foreheads. 
He laid your cornerstones on that glorious morn- 
ing when the orchestra of heaven sounded the 
anthem of creation. He clothed your high, im« 
perial forms in royal robes. 

He gave you a snowy garment, and wove for 
you a cloudy vail of crimson and gold. He 
crowned you with a diadem of icy jewels ; 
pearls from the Arctic seas ; gems from the frosty 
pole. Mountains ! ye are glorious. Ye stretch 
your granite arms away toward the vales of the 
undiscovered : ye have a longing for immortality. 

But, Mountains ! ye long in vain. I called 
you glorious, and truly ye are ; but jour glory 
is like that of the starry heavens, — it shall pass 
away at the trumpet-blast of the angel of the 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS, 



147 



Most High. And yet ye are worthy of a high 
and eloquent eulogium. Ye were the lovers of 
I the daughters of the gods ; ye are the lovers of 
the daughters of Liberty and Religion now ; and 
in your old and feeble age the children of the 
skies shall honor your bald heads. 
j The clouds of heaven — those shadows of 
/Olympian power, those spectral phantoms of 
dead Titans — kiss your summits, as guardian 
angels kiss the brow of infant nobleness. On 
your sacred rocks I see the footprints of the 
Creator; I see the blazing fires of Sinai, and 
hear its awful voice ; I see the tears of Calvary, 
and listen to its mighty groans. 

Mountains ! ye are proud and haughty things. 
Ye hurl defiance at the storm, the lightning, and 
the wind ; ye look down with deep disdain upon 
the thunder -cloud ; ye scorn the devastating 
tempest ; ye despise the works of puny man ; 
ye shake your rock-ribbed sides with giant 
laughter, when the great earthquake passes by. 
Ye stand as giant sentinels, and seem to say to 



the boisterous billows, — ''Thus far shalt thou 
come, and here shall thy proud waves be stayed ! ' ' 

Mountains ! ye are growing old. Your ribs 
of granite are getting weak and rotten; your 
muscles are losing their fatness ; your hoarse 
voices are heard only at distant intervals ; your 
volcanic heart throbs feebly and your lava-blood 
is thickening, as the winters of many ages gather 
their chilling snows around your venerable forms. 

The brazen sunlight laughs in your old and 
wrinkled faces ; the pitying moonlight nestles in 
your hoary locks ; and the silvery starlight rests 
upon you like the halo of inspiration that 
crowned the heads of dying patriarchs and 
prophets. Mountains ! ye must die. Old 
Father Time, that sexton of earth, has dug you 
a deep, dark tomb ; and in silence ye shall sleep 
after sea and shore shall have been pressed by 
the feet of the apocalyptic angel, through the 
long watches of an eternal night. Ye shall have 
your grave and burial. 

E. M. MoRSB. 



FROM THE WRECK. 




*URN out, boys." — «« What's up with our 
super to night? 
The man's mad.' Two hours to day- 
break, I'd swear. 
5tark mad — why, there isn't a glimmer of light 



**Take Bolingbroke, Alec, give Jack the young 
mare ; 
.look sharp. A large vessel lies jammed on the 
reef. 
And many on board still, and some washed on 
shore. 
Ride straight with the news — they may send 
some relie.f 
From the township ; and we, — we can do little 
\ more. 

"You, Alec, you know the near cuts, you can 
cross 
The Sugarloaf ford with a scramble, I think; 



Don't spare the blood filly, nor yet the black 
horse ; 
Should the wind rise, God help them! the 
ship will soon sink. 
Old Peter's away down the paddock, to drive 

The nags to the stockyard as fast as he can, — 
A life and death matter; so, lads, look alive." 
Half dressed, in the dark to the stockyard wa 
ran. 

There was bridling with hurry, and saddling with 
haste. 
Confusion and cursing for lack of a moon. 
**Be quick with these buckles, we've no time to 

waste.", 
*'Mind the mare, she can use her hind legs to 

some tune." 
*^Make sure of the crossing-place; strike tne old 
track. 
They've fenced off the new one. Look out 
fo*^ the holes 



148 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



On the Wombat hills.'- *Down with the slip 
rails; stand back. 
**And ride, boys, the pair of you, ride for 
your souls." 

In the low branches heavily laden with dew. 
In the long grasses spoiling with deadwood 
that day, 
Where the blackwood, the box, and the bastard 
oak grew, 
Between the tall gumtrees we galloped away. 
We crashed through a brush fence, we splashed 
through a swamp. 
We steered for the north, near ''the Eagle- 
hawk's Nest," 
We bore to the left, just beyond ''the Red 
Camp, ' ' 
And round the black tea- tree belt, — wheeled 
to the west. 

We crossed a low range, sickly scented with 
musk 
From wattle-tree blossom — we skirted a marsh. 
Then the dawn faintly dappled with orange the 
dusk. 
And pealed overhead the jay's laughter note 
harsh. 
And shot the first sunstreak behind us, and soon 
The dim, dewy uplands were dreamy with 
light ; 
And full on our left flashed "the reedy lagoon," 
And sharply "The Sugarloaf" reared on our 
right. 

A smothered curse broke through the bushman's 
brown beard, 
He turned in his saddle, his brick-colored 
cheek 
Flushed feebly with sundawn, said, •^* Just what 
I feared ; ' 

Last fortnight's late rainfall has flooded the 
creek." 
Black Bolingbroke snorted and stood on the 
brink 
One instant, then deep in the dark sluggish 
swirl 



Plunged headlong. I saw the horse suddenly 
sink, 
Till round the man's armpits the wave seemed 
to curl. 

We followed, — one cold shock, and deeper we. 
sank 
Than they did, and twice tried the landing in 
vain ; 
The third struggle won it — straight, straight up 
the steep bank 
We staggered, then out on the skirts of the 
plain. 
The stockrider. Alec, at starting had got 

The lead, and had kept it throughout ; 'twas 
his boast 
That through thickest of scrub he could steer 
like a shot. 
And the black horse was counted the best on 
the coast. 

The mare had been awkward enough in the dark, 
She was eager and headstrong, and barely half- 
broke ; 
She had had me too close to a big stringy bark. 
And made a near thing of a crooked she-oak ; 
But now on the open, lit up by the morn. 

She flung the white foam flakes from nostril to 
neck. 
And chased him, — I, hatless, with shirt-sleeves 
all torn, 
(For he may ride ragged who rides from a 
wreck) — 

And faster and faster across the wide heath 
We rode till we raced. Then I gave her her 
head. 
And she — stretching out with the bit in her 
teeth- 
She caught him, outpaced him, and passed i 
him, and led. 
We neared the new fence ; we were wide of the 
track ; 
I looked right and left — she had never been 
tried 
At a stiff leap. 'T'^as little he cared on the 
black. 




ORIENTAIv COvSTUME 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



149 



"You're more than a mile from the gateway," 
he cried. 

I hmig to her neck, touched her flank with the 
spurs 
(In the red streak of rail not the ghost of a 

gap); 
She shortened her long stroke, she pricked her 

sharp ears. 
She flung it behind her with hardly a rap. 
I saw the post quiver where Bolingbroke struck. 
And guessed that the pace we had come the 
last mile 
Had blown him a bit (he could jump like a 
buck) . 
We galloped more steadily then for a while. 

The heath was soon passed ; in the dim distance 
lay 
The mountain. The sun was just clearing the 
tips 
Of the ranges to eastward. The mare — could 
she stay ? 
She was bred very nearly as clean as Eclipse. 
She led, and as oft as he came to her side 

She took the bit, free and untiring as yet ; 
Her neck was arched double, her nostrils were 
wide, 
And the tips of her tapering ears nearly met. 

"You're lighter than I am," said Alec at last, 

"The horse is dead beat and the mare isn't 
blown. 
She must be a good one — ride on and ride fast. 

You know your way now." So I rode on 
alone. 
Still galloping forward we passed the two flocks 

At M'Intyre's hut and M'Allister's hill. 
She was galloping strong at the Warrigal Rocks, 

On the Wallaby Range she was galloping still. 

And over the waste land and under the wood. 
By down and by dale, and by fell and by flat. 

She galloped, and here in the stirrups I stood 
To ease her, and there in the saddle I sat 

To st.:(;i hci . 7/e suddenly struck the red loam 



Of the track near the troughs, then she reeled 
on the rise; 
From her crest to her croup covered over with 
foam, 
And blood-red her nostrils and bloodshot hei 
eyes. 

A dip in the dell where the wattle fire bloomed- 
A bend round a bank that had shut out th^; 
view — 
Large framed in the mild light the mountain had 
bloomed. 
With a tall purple peak bursting out from the 
blue. 
I pulled her together, I pressed her, and she 

Shot down the decline to the Company's yard. 
And on by the paddocks, yet under my knee 
I could feel her heart thumping the saddle 
flaps hard. 

Yet a mile and another, and now we were near 
The goal, and the fields and the farms flitted 
fast. 
And ' twixt the two fences I turned with a cheer. 
For a green, grass-fed mare 'twas a far thing 
and fast! 
And laborers, roused by her galloping hoofs, 
Saw the bare-headed rider and foam-sheeted 
steed ; 
And shone the white walls and the slate-colored 
roofs 
Of the township. I steadied her then — I had 
need— 

Where stood the old chapel (where stands the 
new church — 
Since chapels to churches have changed in 
that town), 
A short, sidelong stagger, a long forward lurch, 
A slight choking sob, and the mare had gone 
down. 
I slipped off" the bridle, I slackened the girth, 

I ran on and left her, and told them my news ; 
I saw her soon afterwards. What was she worth? 
How much for her hide? She had never 
worn shoes. 

|Adam Lindsay Gordon, 



150 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



HOME. 



'HERE is something in the word home, that 
wakes the kindliest feelings of the heart. 
It is not merely friends and kindred who 
render that place so dear ; but the very hills and 
rocks and rivulets throw a charm around the 
place of one's nativity. It is no wonder that the 
loftiest harps have been tuned to sing of ' ' home, 
sweet home." The rose that bloomed in the 
garden where one has wandered in early years a 
thoughtless child, careless in innocence, is lovely 
in its bloom, and lovelier in its decay. 

No songs are sweet like ^h^-se we heard among 
the boughs that shade a parent's dwelling, when 
the morning or the evening hour found, us gay as 
the birds that warbled over us. No waters are 
bright like the clear silver streams that wind 
among the flower-decked knolls, where, in child- 
hood, we have often strayed to pmck the violet 
or the lily, or to twine a garland for some loved 
schoolmate. 

We may wander away and mingle in the 
'* world's fierce strife," and form new associa- 
tions and friendships, and fancy we have almost 
forgotten the land of our birth; but at some 
evening hout, as we listen perchance to the 
autumn winds, the remembrance of other days 
comes over the soul, and fancy bears us back to 
childhood,' s scenes. We roam again the old 
familiar haunts, and press the hands of compan- 
ions long since cold in the grave, and listen to 
the voices we shall hear on earth no more. It is 
then a feeling of melancholy steals over us, which, 
like Ossian's music, is pleasant, though mourn- 
ful to the soul. 



r 



The African, torn from his willow-braided hut, 
and borne away to the land of strangers, and of 
toil, weeps as he thinks of home, and sighs and 
pines for the cocoa-land beyond the waters of the 
sea. Years may have passed over him ; strifes 
and toils may have crushed his spirits ; all his 
kindred may have found graves upon the corals 
of the ocean ; yet, were he free, how soon would 
he seek the shores and skies of his boyhood 
dreams ? 

The New England mariner, amid the icebergs 
of the Northern seas, or breathing the spicy gales 
of the ever green isles, or coasting along the 
shores of the Pacific, though the hand of time 
may have blanched his raven locks, and care 
have plowed deep furrows on his brow, and his 
heart have been chilled by the storms of the 
ocean, till the fountains of his love have almosl 
ceased to gush with the heavenly current ; yet, 
upon some summer's evening, as he looks out 
upon the sun sinking behind the western wave, 
he will think of home ; his heart will yearn for 
the loved of other days, and his tears flow like 
the summer rain. 

How, after long years of absence, does the 
heart of the wanderer beat, and his eyes fill, as 
he catches a glimpse of the hills of his nativity; 
and when he has pressed the lip of a brother oi 
sister, how soon does he hasten to see if the gar- 
den, and the orchard, and the stream look as in 
days gone by ! We may find climes as beauti- 
ful, and skies as bright, and friends as devoted^ 
but that will not usurp the place of home, the 
dearest spot on earth. 



SIMON GRUB'S DREAM. 



>HE text was this : ''Inasmuch as ye 

Have done it to these ye have done it to 
me." 

Soon Simon slept, for 'twas sultry weather. 
And the dream and the sermon went on together. 



k 



He dreamed that he died and stood at the gate 
Of fhQ outer court where the angels wait 



For those who heard the glad "well done,* 
And can enter the realms of the Holy One. 

While Simon waited and wondered if he 
Had forgotten the password, or lost the key, 
A voice above him said, loud and clear, 
''Do you know you must bring your witnesses 
here?" 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



151 



*'0f T^tnesses there are many," said he 

"My brethren and neighbors will all speak for 

me. 
But the brethren and neighbors came not near, 
And he heard only a whinny, familiar and clear. 

And old Grayfoot, the horse, stood just at his 

right, 
While around on the other side, just coming in 

sight. 
Was a crowd of dumb creatures so forlorn and 

so poor 
That the angel wept as he opened the door. 

Then Simon grew pale, and trembling with fear 
Said, *'0 why are not some of my brethren here? 
Pray wait, pray wait, they'll surely come." 
'Twas Grayfoot that spoke then, and Simon was 
dumb : 

*• On wintry nights I've stood in my stall 
When the cold winds blew through the cracks in 

the wall 
Till every joint and sinew and bone 
Seemed frozen and dead as the coldest stone. 

'* I've shivered the dreary time away 
With only some wisps of the poorest hay ; 
Then put to work with shout and blow, 
So hungry and faint I could scarcely go." 
Then old Brindle came, and with soft brown eyes 
Fixed on her master in sad surprise, 
Told a pitiful tale of starvation and cold. 
And how he had sold her food for gold. 

The poor sheep told their story, too. 
Of bitter wrongs their whole life through ; 
Turned out in cold and stormy weather 
To starve and freeze and cry together. 

They were lowly cries, but they turned to prayer. 
And floating upward had rested there 
j Close by the ear of Him who says, 
1 **I will hear the cries of my poor always." 

\ The old house dog, though treated ill, 
Came near and fawned on his master still. 



Because the love these dumb things know 

Is more than human, more faithful, more true. 

Then conscience woke, like some torpid thing 
That is brought to life by the sun in spring. 
And it lashed and stung him /ike poisoned,^ 

thongs 
As memory brought him his train of wrongs, 
Forgetting nothing of word or deed. 
Of cruel blows or selfish greed. 

His cruelly-treated friends that were dumb, 
Would they follow him on through the ages to 

come? 
Must he see them forever gaunt, hungry or cold? 
For *'Time and eternity never grow old." 

How oft in dumb pleading they'd ask'd a caress 
From his hands that had beaten and starved 

them ! Ah, yes, 
He remembered it all, and it stung him to know 
That the love they had craved had met only a 

blow. 

Oh, could he live over the life that was past. 
And leave out its sins, to stand here at last 
With a soul that was white for a happier fate : 
Was it conscience that whispered, **Too late, 
too late/ " 

He'd cruelly passed over life's narrowing track, 
Till remorse claimed its own — for that never 

turns back — 
And sins scarce remembered, remembered too 

late. 
Grew black as he saw them from heaven's barred 

gate. 

'Twas in vain that he strove to speak, to say 
Those sweet old words, *' Forgive, I pray;'* 
Sin'c last sad cry: he was silent there ; 
He was dmmb, with such woful need of prayer. 

Then voices seemed floating on every breeze : 
**Ye did it to these, ye did it to these ! 
Go hence, be homeless, go starve and freeze ; 
Ye did it to these, ye did it to these ! 



152 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



*'And when you are faint and weary with woe 
You will still hear the shout, you will still feel 

the blow, 
While a voice from which you shall never be 

free 
Will whisper beside you, *Ye did it to me.' " 

But hark ! What melody over him rolls ? 
Do the angels sing requiems over lost souls ? 
His last hope has fled. In an agony new 
He awoke — to find himself safe in his pew. 



What his dumb friends thought none ever Knev 
When food was plenty and blows were few, 
But the teacher who follows us ever, it seems. 
Gives his strongest lessons, sometimes, in dreams. 

Remember, dear friends, that the lips that are 

dumb 
May be those that will speak when our time 

shall come 
To stand at the entrance, and watch and wait 
For the angel to open or close the gate. 



THE CORONATION-PAGEANT OF ANNE BOLEYN, 




LORIOUS as the spectacle was, perhaps, 
however it passed unheeded. Those 
eyes were watching all for another ob- 
ject, which now drew near. In an open space 
behind the constable there was seen approaching 
**a white chariot," drawn by two palfreys in 
white damask which swept the ground, a golden 
canopy borne above it making music with silver 
bells : and in the chariot sat the observed of all 
observers, the beautiful occasion of all this glit- 
tering homage ; fortune's plaything of the hour, 
the Queen of England — queen at last ! — ^borne 
along upon the waves of this sea of glory, breath- 
ing the perfumed incense of gTeatness which she 
had risked her fair name, her delicacy, her honor, 
her self-respect, to win ; and she had won it. 

There she sat, dressed in white tissue robes, 
her fair hair flowing loose over her shoulders, and 
her temples circled with a light coronet of gold 
and diamonds — most beautiful — loveliest — ^most 
favored, perhaps, as she seemed at that hour, of 
all England's daughters. Alas! *' within the hol- 
low r®und of that coronet — 

** Kept Death liis*court, and there the antick sate 
Scoffing her state and grinning at her pomp ; 
Allowing her a little breath, a little scene 
To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks, 
Infusing her with self and vain conceit, 
As if the flesh which walled about her life 
Were brass impregnable ; and humored thus. 
Bored thro' her castle walls ; and farewell, Queen I** 

Fatal gift of greatii^oS 1 so dangerous ever ! so 
iuaore than dangerous in those tremendous times 



when the fountains are broken loose of the grea: 
deeps of thought, and nations are in the throe* 
of revolution ; when ancient order and law and 
traditions are splitting in the social earthquake. 
and as the opposing forces wrestle to and fro^ 
tnose unhappy ones who stand out above the 
crowd become the symbols of the struggle, and 
fall the victims of its alternating fortunes. 

And what if into an unsteady heart and brain^ 
intoxicated with splendor, the outward chaos 
should find its way, converting the poor silly 
soul into an image of the same confusion — if con 
science should be deposed from her high place, 
and the Pandora box be broken loose of passions 
and sensualities and follies ; and at length there 
be nothing left of all which man or woman ought 
to value, save hope of God's/orgiveness. 

Three short years have yet to pass, and again, 
on a summer morning, Queen Anne Boleyn will 
leave the Tower of London — ^not radiant then 
with beauty on a gay errand of coronation, but 
a poor, wandering ghost, on a sad, tragic errand, 
from which she will never more return, passing 
away out of an earth where she may stay no lon- 
ger, into a presence where, nevertheless, we know 
that all is well — for all of us — ^and therefore for 
her. 

Did any twinge of remorse, any pang of pain' 
ful recollection, pierce at that moment the in- 
cense of glory she was inhaling ? Did any visioi* 
flit across her of a sad, mournful figure which had 
once stood where she was standing, now desolate. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



153 



^iegiected, sinking into the darkening twilight of 
a life cut short by sorrow ? Who can tell ? At 
?uch a time, that figure would have weighed 
neavily upon a noble mind, and a wise mind 
•vv3uld have been taught by the thought of it, 
that, although life be fleeting as a dream, it is 
ong enough to experience strange vicissitudes of 
ortune. 
But Anne Boleyn was not noble and was not 



wise — too probably she felt nothing but the deli- 
cious, all-absorbing, all-intoxicating present ; and 
if that plain, suffering face presented itself to her 
memory at all, we may fear that it was rather as 
a foil to her own surpassing loveliness. Two 
years later she was able to exult over Kath- 
arine*s death ; she is not likely to have thought 
of her with gentler feelings in the first glow and 
flush of triumph. J. A. Froude. 



THE ROMAN SENTINEL. 

"In the excavations made by the government aathorities to restore the ancient city of Pompeii, the workmen discovered 
me bones of a Roman soldier in the sentry box at one of the city's gates. As rocks of shelter were near at hand, and escape 
rom the volcar ' -■ ^ery deluge thus rendered possible, the supposition is that this brave sentinel chose to meet death, rathei 
nan desert his p^^ — /f duty." 



HE 



rose from his crimson 



morning sun 
couch 

In the Orient-land, and bathed the world 
in golden showers of refreshing light : 
With orange and with jasmine the gardens 
Of Pompeii were beautiful and fragrant ; 
The gray rocks, robed and crowned with vines 

and flowers. 
Were lulled to sleep upon the bosom of the Bay. 
The merchant ships and pleasure boats lay still 
And lifeless — or, drifting aimlessly between 
The blue of the skies and the blue of the sea. 

Sailing away on silvery pinions, 

A pair of cloud-lovers, with cheeks of pearl. 

Blushed to discover, in the sea below. 

Their mirrored images : The distant isles 

Answered back smiles of happy contentment 

To voices calling from the mainland shores. 

The hazy air, mild and calm, wrapped this proud 

Old Italian city in a mantle 

Of dreamful repose. On her streets the tramp 

Of feet, now and then, broke the lazy quiet — 

Some bought, some sold, some danced, some 

played, some slept ; 
And each one went about his daily work. 
Nor dreamed of danger near. 

rtt a gate commanding entrance to f^ompeii 
Was placed a trusty sentinel. His tall. 
Erect and warlike stature told a tale 



Of dauntless courage. Proud of the faith and 
Confidence placed in his loyal heart. 
The sentinel's eyes shone like brilliant stars: 
His trumpet, sword, and buckler hung about 
His frame with airy lightness, while his face. 
His bearing and his every action 
Proclaimed in terms and force significant — 
^^ Here stands a Roman Soldier I^^ 

While pacing to and fro his measured beat. 
And dreaming dreams of long expected honors. 
There comes, beneath him, a strange quick 

movement ! 
He stops — ^waits — listens. Ah, it comes again ! 
Then he knows the awful truth, — an earthquake, 
That dreadful harbinger of volcanic 
Action ! A third time, and the ground doth 

heave 
Like ocean billows ! Up, through ev'ry vein 
The soldier's blood darts with freezing torture J 
He looks towards the Bay, — it boils and strug 

gles 
In its mad contention, lashing itself 
As it lashes the shore ! He lifts his trumpet 
And sounds a loud alarm 1 Back from the 

throat 
Of great Vesuvius returns the answer, — 
A rumble, rumble, rumble, like distant 
Artillery ! Volumes of smoke, dense and 
Gigantic, roll from the maddened crater I 
Daylight ceases ! no sun ! no moon ! no stars \ 



154 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



Now dreadful, appaling, and magnificent 
Blazes the weird, Plutonian candle ! 
The ground heaves ! It rocks again ! The waters 
Leap beyond their shores ! See — the giant moun- 
tain 
Trembles ! Then one long, unnatural, roaring 
Peal of wild volcanic thunder, and the 
Fiery lakes of hell are hurled, seething. 
Into the clouds above ! Sound the danger 
Signals! Rouse the thoughtless people ! Fly! fly! 
Fly for your lives ! Too late ! too late ! forever 
Too late ! A molton sea of liquid fire] 
Pours down upon the fated city! 
Ghastly imps, the spectres of ruin, gloat 
Above the hissing surges ! Now a rain 
Of red-hot ashes, stones, and cinders falls 
Thick and fast for miles around ! In the streets. 
In their shops, in their homes that startled mass 
Of poor humanity is suddenly 
Clasped in the arms of unexpected Death ! 
Old age, manhood, bouyant youth, and helpless 
Infancy all , all at once are buried 
* Neath the burning fury o^ that awful 
Avalanche ! 

When the per . up ire 
Of grim Vesuvius had burst its massive 
Prison bars; the soldier thought : ** What shall 



I do? To yon projecting rock I quick 
Can Hy and safety find ! But can I thus betiay 
My sacred trust and win the name of Coward? 
Is life a gem worth such a price to me? 
Could e'er again these Roman lips repeat 
The name my father bore? No! no! no! here! 
Here will I stand ; so let the fiends of hell 
Exhaust their utmost fury ! Trumpet, sound 
My challenge bold! Ye heavens, wear youu 

blackest face ! 
Volcano, hurl your wildest fires! For though 
I choke — I burn — I sink — I die — ^yet ne'er 
Will I forsake my post of duty ! '* 

Seventeen 
Hundred years rolled by ere again the light 
Of day shone on the buried city ; 
Then excavation broke the seals which held 
The solemn secret. Two hundred thousand 
Skulls and more were found entombed beneaih 
The ashes. Every stone and piece of metal 
Lifted from the ancient ruins, told o'er 
And o'er the horrors of that dark eruption. 
At his post the sentinel's bones had kept 
Their long and ghastly vigil. As in life 
So e'en in death, the sacred trust was noi 
Deserted. 

Ward M. Florence, 



i 



THE STAQE-DRIVER'5 STORY. 



TAKE Poole was staging the route from Gal- 
/pX latin to Helena, in Montana, driving a 
V>/ four horse coach in summer and a ' * jerky' ' 
in winter, seventy miles a day through the wild- 
est region, and over one of the most dangerous 
routes in the United States. The country through 
which this trail ran — for it was little less than a 
trail — was totally uninhabited, but for the three 
stage stations, where horses were changed, and 
which were dugouts, or huts, twenty miles apart. 
The Indians, although generally friendly, were 
liable to become enemies at a moment's warn- 
ing ; road agents and outlaws were thicker upon 
the Gallatin route than any other north of the 
Union Pacific Railroad, and the route itself ran 



through precipices, as though originally laid out I 
by mountain sheep. Notwithstanding all this, : 
Jake was a successful driver, made better time, 
lost fewer mails and express safes, and ran his 
coach at a smaller expense to the company than 
any other man in their employ. But when mis- | 
fortune did overtake him, it was no light hand 
that the genius of evil laid upon him, which the 
following adventure proves : ' 

One muggy morning, in early May, as Poole 
hauled up in front of the stage office and pre- 
pared to receive mails, express and messengers^ 
and passengers, if any there should be for Helena, 
the Wells Fargo agent called to him from within. 
Throwing the reins over the foQt-brake, Poole 



_J 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



155 



descended irom IiiB perch and entered the office. 
The agent shut the door behind him ; then draw- 
ing near he said, in a half whisper: '' There's 
fifteen thousand in currency in the safe, to take 
over to-day.* ' 

** All right! '* responded Jake. "I've carried 
more before now and carried it safely. ' ' 

*'But/' s^id the agent, drawing nearer, 
** Dick's dck and there's no messenger." 

'^Ah!" said the driver, meditatively; then, 
touching the revolvers which hung at his belt : 
* 'I'll be messenger and coachman both then." 

'* But," still continued the other, "there's one 
thing more,'* and he leaned forward so that his 
fips touched his companion's ear, " Copper Tom 
and his pal, old Jim, are on the road. A man 
from Cross Trees was robbed by them last night. ' ' 

Poole whistled long and low, and his hand fell 
from his pistol butt. " Copper Turn" was the 
worst road agent in Montana, — a. desperado with 
both courage and brains. 

" Don't send the rags." 

**I must!" said the expressman anxiously. 
'' The order is peremptory ; the money must go 
to-day, messenger or no messenger. Now, will 
you take it and carry it through ? " 

Jake laughed. "I'll take it; that's part of 
my business. Throw the safe under the seat and 
give me your pistol, I may want two, ' ' and he 
took the other's revolver from the desk where it 
lay ana thrust it into his boot-top. "As to carry- 
ing it through- that's another matter, with these 
fellows to stop it. But I'll promise you this, — 
if I go through the safe shall ! ' ' 

The agent grasped his hand and shook it 
vsrarmly. The door was thrown open, the driver 
mounted his seat, the iron box was stowed be- 
neath his feet, the single passenger (an old 
woman, to be left at the first station) got in, the 
whip cracked, the horses plunged, the coach 
lurched heavily forward and, amid a shower of 
Siud, disappeared down the steep mountain road. 
Although it was May, the morning was cold, 
and it was not until the sun had climbed well 
up the eastern sky that the chill thawed out of 
the air, and by that hour Poole was more than 



twenty miles upon his journey, with fresh horses 
in their traces, and an empty coach behind him. 
He began to brighten with the rm. 

"After I get through the Devil'.s Pass," said 
he to himself "Copper Tom or any other man 
may whistle for me, for from that to Dickson's 
is as handsome a road as ever a horse struck foot 
upon, and whoever tries to stop me there, unless 
he shoots first, will go under the leader's feet. 
I intend to make that little seven miles in just 
twenty-eight minutes without brakes. ' ' And he 
gathered his reins with a firmer hand, "Lets 
see, ' ' he continued, ' ' if nothing goes wrong and 
the road's all right, I ought to make my last 
change by five o'clock and reach the Pass before 
six. I'll strike Dick's before seven certain. 
Beyond that the road is too open and too much 
traveled into Helena to be dangerous. "By 
Jove," he conclued, his heart warming as he 
struck his heel against the safe beneath the seat, 
"I don't see where the agents can stop me unless 
— good heaven ! what if they try it in the very 
Pass itself? I had not thought of that ! ' ' 

The man was silent for a moment and his face 
grave; then brightening he shook his reins, 
loosened his revolvers in boot and belt, and con- 
cluded his soliloquy with the remark: "Well, 
if they meet me in the Pass 'twill be about an 
even thing. If they miss their first shot I'll run 
'em down, drive 'em into the canyon, or 
drop 'em with my pistols. If they don't miss, 
why then the swag's theirs! " It was now high 
noon and soon station two was reached, where 
horses were again changed and where Poole 
dined upon jerked bear meat, hot bread and 
black coffee. Strong food, but none too strong 
for the long ride yet before him. 

As he mounted the box and prepared to 
depart the keeper of the station slipped from his 
dugout and drew near. "There's an old pard 
down the road a bit that'll want a ride. He 
war here 'bout two hours ago. He'll bear 
watchin'." And the rough frontiersman touched 
the pistol butt which protruded from his open 
shirt front to emphasize his warning. 

"^ke nodded. "Thanks, Tom, I'll keep my 



156 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



eyes open. So long ! " The fresh steeds in 
"^rness sprang strongly forward, and the empty 
coach whirled away. 

'*It*s old Jim, sure," said he to himself, as 
hi? trained eye searched the road before him. 
"The old devil wants to ride so that he'll be 
on hand when Copper Tom Airns up in the Pass. 
'■ «ee it all." The teeth closed with a snap. 
"Good," he continued a moment later. **He 
shall ride. ' ' Some five miles were passed, when 
in the shadow of a pine that grew near the trail, 
Jake espied his prospective passenger prone upon 
the ground apparently resting. As the coach 
drew near the man arose slowly. 

"Hullo, driver ! Kin ye favor an old beggar 
with a lift? I'm too old to tramp as I used to, 
an' too poor to pay for a ride. Kin ye give me 
one ? " He stepped forward as he spoke. Poor 
he was, if tattered garments betoken poverty. 
Old he surely was, for the withered skin and 
scanty gray locks, the claw-like hands and sunk- 
en eyes could not well be disguised. Half in 
scorn and half in pity, yet fully awake to his 
danger, Jake drew rein and replied: "Yes. 
Be lively; I'm behind time now. Where do 
you go ! " The old man answered, as he strug- 
gled to a seat at the driver' s side : ' ' Dickson' s. ' ' 
A touch of the whip and the horses were again 
upon a trot. Poole eyed his companion and 
almost unconsciously dropped his hand to his 
boot top and loosened the revolver there. 

"Cold day for May," said the new comer 
shivering. "This yer wind's sharp." 

"Yes," responded the other, wondering 
where about his ragged clothes the scoundrel had 
concealed his weapons, "it is cold; but you'll 
find it warmer in the Pass. ' ' 

"Sure ? " said the old man, leering in Jake's 
face. 

"Sure," responded that worthy, his blood 
chilling with the covert hint in the word, and he 
urged his horses to yet greater speed. 
I The grade was sharply descending now, and 
the road rocky and rough. A mile more and the 
Pass would be reached. The coach fairly swayed 
under its rapid motion. Old Jim was forced to 



cling to the seat with both hands, in order to 
avoid being hurled to the ground. This was as 
Jake desired, and he smiled grimly as he noticed 
the other's action. 

* * Yer - a - drivin' - purty - fast ! ' ' screamed the 
gray-headed desperado, the words fairly jerked . 
from him as the coach sprang forward, rocking 
from side to side. " You'11-hev-to-hold-up-at- I 
the-Pass-I-reckon ! " f 

Jake set his teeth. The granite walls of the 
Pass were now just before them, and the road- 
way descending and steep, ran into the shadow 
of the coming night and the gloom of the grave- 
like opening, — a narrow path, but little wider 
than the coach itself. The roar of the angry 
river below knelled a never ending warning, as 
it ran, ragged and torn among the jagged rocks, 
and the deathlike mist that crept up was deep 
and chill. 

"I won't hold up ! " and with these words .| 
the driver struck his horses sharply, and snorting, | 
they sprang forward into the Devil's Pass. At i 
the same instant, half way through the terrible I 
gorge, standing motionless in the centre of the 
roadway, a beetling wall of rock upon one hand, J 
a chasm of unknown depth upon the other, was 
seen a man. Copper Tom was awaiting his 
quarry. The old man at Poole's side uttered a 
cry, and loosening his grip of the seat with one 
hand he would have thrust it into his breast ; * 
but the other leaned suddenly toward him, and f 
pressing a revolver muzzle against his forehead, * 
whispered hoarsely: "Down with yer hands! ', 
If ye stir ag'in I'll kill ye ! I know ye, old Jim, 
an' ye can't catch Jake Poole nor his load this 
time ! Down with yer hands ! ' ' 

The shuddering rascal's haiid fell at his side; 
his face grew ashen-hued, and his eyes stared 
before him. They were rapidly approaching 
Copper Tom. For an instant as they came, that 
worthy stood facing them ; then through the 
fading light he saw the position of his pal, upon 
whom he had depended — he saw the stern, set 
face of the driver — he saw the furious horses 
plunging down upon him — and with a terror- 
stricken cry he turned and fled ! Could he but 



w 





Oh, COI.DMPIA, THE GEM OE THE OCEAN, 

The home oe the brave and the free. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



•157 



reach the lower end of the causeway he might 
escape, could he but find a single spot to turn 
aside he would be safe ; but it was not to be. 

Nearer and nearer thundered the iron-shod 
hoof behind him, narrower and still narrower 
grew the fatal road, until there rang a horrible, 
despairing cry, mingled with the frightened 
snort of the horses, a dark something bent down 
before the plunging steeds, rolled an instant 
before their grinding feet, and then, spurned by 
the flying wheels, was hurled into the canyon 
beneath, and the coach sped on. Half an hour 



later Jake Poole pulled into the corral at Dick- 
son's ranch, and tumbling a half fainting man 
from the seat at his side into the arms of 
astounded hostlers he said : **Bind that man and 
give him to the sheriff! It's old Jim, the road 
agent ! His pard's at the bottom of the gulch 
in the Pass ; and I reckon this one will stretch 
hemp when the officers get him. I've driven my 
last run from Gallatin ! There's too much risk 
about the business for me. ' ' And Jake kept his 
word. Bold and brave as he was, he would not 
take any more chances of that sort. 



THE MISER'S WILL. 



'HIS tale is true, for so the records show ; 
'Twas in Germany, not many years ago : 

Young Erfurth loved. But ere the wedding day 
His dearest friend stole with his bride away. 
The woman false that he had deemed so true. 
The friend he trusted but an ingrate, too. 
What wonder that, his love to hatred grown. 
His heart should seem to all mankind a stone ? 
All kindred ties he broke, himself be banned ' 
And sought a solitude in stranger land. 
Grief finds relief in something found to do, 
The mind must find some object to pursue ; 
And so, ere long, his being was controlled 
By sole, debasing, longing greed for gold. 
How soon his little multiplied to much ! 
His hand seemed gifted with a Midas touch; 
Yet still he kept himself unto himself. 
None seeing but for increase of his pelf. 

Death came at last ; discovering ere he died, 
His heart had yet one spot unpetrified ; 
For, on his bed, his hand upon it still. 
There, open, lay the poor old miser's will. 

The will was read ; there to his brothers three 
He left to each a thousand marks ; and he, 
The friend who caused him all his grief and 

shame. 
Was, with his free forgiveness, left the same ; 
But none of these, to whom such wealth he gave 
Should follow his remains unto the grave 



On pain oi forfeit. 'Neath his pillow pressed 
Was found a letter, sealed ; and thus addressed ; 
**To my dear native city of Berlin." 

The brothers heard, and thought it was no sin 
To stay away ; besides, his absence long 
Had quenched the love not ever over-strong. 
What did the faithless friend? He knelt in 

tears. 
Looked back in anguish o'er the vanished years, 
Saw once again their happy boyhood's time. 
Their manhood's friendship, his repented criraia. 
**0h, my wronged Erfurth, now in death, so 

cold, 
I've your forgiveness, care I for your gold?" 
And, at the funeral, striving to atone. 
The single mourner there, he walked alone. 

The letter opened at the Mayor's will, 
Was found to hold the miser's codicil. 
Wherein he gave his hoarded gold and lands 
To him that disobeyed the will's commands, 
Should such there be,- -whose heart knew love 

or pity,— 
Or, failing, all went to his native city. 

And so the friend who stole his bride away ; 
Who turned to night his joyous morn of day, 
Humbly repentant, when his victim died, 
Received his pardon and his wealth beside. 

George Birdseye. 



15^ 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS, 



THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S RIDE. 

At the battle oi Jena, when the Prussian army was routed, the Queen, mounted on a superb charger, remained on me field 
attended by three or four of her escort. A band of hussars seeing- her, rushed forward at full gallop, and with drawn swords 
dispersed the little group, and pursued her all the way to Weimar. Had not the horse which her Majesty rode possessed the 
fieetness of a stag, the fair Queen would infallibly have been captured. 



I rAIR Queen, away ! To thy charger speak — 
1^ A band of hussars they capture seek. 
\ Oh, haste ! escape ! they are riding this 
way. 
Speak — speak to thy charger without delay ; 

They're nigh. 
Behold ! They come at a break-neck pace, 
A smile triumphant illumes each face. 
Queen of the Prussians, now for a race. 
To Weimar for safety — fly ! 

She turned, and her steed with a furious dash — > 
Over the fields like the lightning's flash — 

fled. 
Away, like an arrow from steel cross-bow, 
Over hill and dale in the sun's fierce glow, 
The Queen and her enemies thundering go. 

On toward Weimar they sped. 

The royal courser is swift and brave, 
And his royal rider he strives to save — 

But no ! 
**Vwt rempereur/** rings sharp and clear; 



She turns and is startled to see them so near, 
Then softly speaks in her charger's ear 

And away he bounds like a roe. 

He speeds as though on the wings of the wind. 
The Queen's pursuers are left behind. 

No more 
She fears, though each trooper grasps his reins, 
Stands up in his stirrups, strikes spurs ana 

strains. 
For ride as they may, her steed still gains 

And Weimar is just before. 

Safe ! The clatter now fainter grows j 
She sees in the distance her laboring foes. 
The gates of the fortress stand open wide 
To welcome the German nation's bride 

so dear. 
With gallop and dash, into Weimar she goes, 
And the gates at once on her enemies close. 
Give thanks, give thanks ! She is safe with 
those 

Who hail her with cheer on cheer ! 
A. L. A. Smith. 



THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA. 



ONORED be the hero evermore 

Who at mercy's call has nobly died , 
Echoed by his name from shore to shore, 
With immortal chronicles allied ! 
Verdant be the turf upon his dust, 

Bright the sky above, and soft the air. 
In the grove set up his marble bust, 

And with garland crown it, fresh and fair. 

In melodious numbers, that shall live 
With the music of the rolling spheres. 

Let the minstrel's inspiration give 
His eulogium to the future years. 

Not the victor in his country's cause, 
Not the chief who leaves a people free. 



Not the framer of a nation's laws 
Shall deserve a greater fame than he. 

Hast thou heard, in Rome's declining day, 

How a youth, by Christian zeal impelled. 
Swept the sanguinary games away 

Which the Coliseum once beheld? 
Filled with gazing thousands were the tiers. 

With the city's chivalry and pride, 
When two gladiators, with their spears, 

Forward sprang from the arena's side. 

Rang the dome with plaudits loud and long 

As, with shields advanced, the athletes stood 
Was there no one in that eager throng 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



159 



To denounce the spectacle of blood ? 
/iy, Telemachus, with swelling frame, 

Saw the inhuman sport renewed once more. 
Few among the crowd could tell his name. 

For a cross was all the badge he wore. 

Vet, with heart elate and god-like mien 

Stepped he forth upon the circling sand. 
And, while all were wond'ring at the scene. 

Checked the encounter with a daring hand. 
"Romans," cried he, **let this reeking sod 

Never more with human blood be stained. 
Let no image of the living God 

In unhallowed combat be profaned ! 

Ah ! too long has this colossal dome 

Failed to sink, and hide your brutal shows ; 
Here, I call upon assembled Rome, 

Now to swear they shall for ever close ! *' 
Parted thus, the combatants, with joy. 

Mid the tumult found the means to fly. 
m the arena stood the undaunted boy. 

And, with looks adoring, gazed on high. 



Pealed the shout of wrath on every side, 

Every hand was eager to assail. 
*' Slay him ! Slay ! " a hundred voices cried. 

Wild with fury. But he did not quail. 
Hears he, as, entranced, he looks above, 

Strains celestial, that the menace drown. 
Sees he angels, with their eyes of love, 

Beckoning to him with a martyr's crown. 

Fiercer swelled the people's frantic shout. 

Launched against him flew the stones liks 
rain. 
Death and terror circled him about ; 

But he stood and perished — not in vain : 
Not in vain the youthful martyr fell. 

Then and there he crushed a bloody creed. 
And his high example shall impel 

Future heroes to as great a deed. 
Stony answers yet remain for those 

Who would question and precede the time. 
In their season may they meet their foes. 

Like Telemachus, with front sublime. 



THE SIOUX CHIEF'5 DAUGHTER. 






JT^ WO gray hawks ride the rising blast ; 
§) Dark cloven clouds drive to and fro 

By peaks pre-eminent in snow ; 
A sounding river rushes past. 
So wild, so vortex-like, and vast. 
A lone lodge tops the windy hill ; 
A tawny maiden, mute and still. 
Stands waiting at the river's brink, 
A5 weird and wild as you can think. 
A mighty chief is at her feet ; 
She does not heed him wooing so— 
She hears the dark, wild waters flow ; 
She waits her lover, tall and fleet. 
From far gold fields of Idaho, 
Beyond the beaming hills of snow. 

He comes ! The grim chief springs in air — 

His brawny arm, his blade is bare. 

She turns ; she lifts her round, brown hand ; 

She looks him fairly in the face ; 

She moves her foot a little pace 



And says, with coldness and command, 
** There's blood enough in this lorn land. 

** But see ! a test of strength and skill. 
Of courage and fierce fortitude *, 
To breast and wrestle with the rude 
And storm-born waters, now I will 
Bestow you both. Stand either side ! 
Take you my left, tall Idaho ; 
And you, my burly chief, I know 
Would choose my right. Now peer you loc 
Across the waters wild and wide. 
See ! leaning so this morn I spied 
Red berries dip yon farther side. 
See, dipping, dripping in the stream, 
Twin boughs of autumn berries gleam ! 
Now this, brave men, shall be the test : 
Plunge in the stream, bear knife in teeth 
To cut yon bough for bridal wreath. 
Plunge in ! and he who bears him best, 
And brings yon ruddy fruit to land 



160 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



The first shall have both heart and hand. ' ' 
Two tawny men, tall, brown, and thewed 
Like antique bronzes rarely seen. 
Shot up like flame. She stood between 
Like fixed, impassive fortitude. 
Then one threw robes with sullen air. 
And wound red fox-tails in his hair ; 
But one with face of proud delight 
Entwined a crest of snowy white. 

She stood between. She sudden gave 
The sign, and each impatient brave 
Shot sudden in the sounding wave ; 
The startled waters gurgled round ; 
Their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound. 

They near the shore at last ; and now 
The foam flies spouting from a face 
That laughing lifts from out the race. 

The race is won, the work is done ! 
She sees the climbing crest of snow ; 
She knows her tall, brown Idaho. 
She cries aloud, she laughing cries, 
And tears are streaming from her eyes. 
*'0 splendid, kingly Idaho ! 
I kiss his lifted crest of snow ; 
I see him clutch the bended bough ! 
'Tis cleft — he turns ! is coming now ! 

** My tall and tawny king come back ! 

Come swift, O sweet ! why falter so ? 

Come ! Come ! What thing has crossed your 

track ? 
I kneel to all the gods I know. 
Oh come, my manly Idaho ! 
Great Spirit, what is this I dread ? 
Why there is blood ! the wave is red ! 
That wrinkled chief, outstripped in race, 
Dives down, and, hiding from my face, 
Strikes underneath ! He rises now ! 
Now plucks my hero's berry bough. 
And lifts aloft his red fox head. 
And signals he has won for me. 
Hist, softly ! Let him come and see. 

'* Oh come ! my white-crowned hero, come ! 
Oh come ! and I will be your bride, 



Despite yon chieftain's craft and might. 

Come back to me ! my lips are dumb, 

My hands are helpless with despair ; 

The hair you kissed, my long, strong hair, 

Is reaching to the ruddy tide. 

That you may clutch it when you come. 

" How slow he buffets back the wave ! 
O God, he sinks ! O Heaven ! save 
My brave, brave boy ! He rises ! See ! 
Hold fast, my boy ! Strike ! strike for me. 
Strike straight this way ! Strike firm and 

strong ! 
Hold fast your strength. It is not long — 
O God, he sinks ! He sinks ! Is gone ! 
His face has perished from my sight. 

''And did I dream, and do I wake ? 
Or did I wake and now but dream ? 
And what is this crawls from the stream ? 
Oh, here is some mad, mad mistake ! 
What, you 1 The red fox at my feet ? 
You first, and failing from a race ? 
What ! You have brought me berries red ? 
What ! You have brought your bride 

wreath ? 
You sly led fox with wrinkled face — 
That blade has blood between your teeth ! 

*' Lie still ! he still ! till I lean o'er 
And clutch your red blade to the shore. 
Ha ! ha ! Take that ! and that ! and that \ 
Ha ! ha ! So through your coward throat 
The full day shines ! Two fox-tails float 
And drift and drive adown the stream. 

" But what is this? What snowy crest 
Climbs out the willows of the west. 
All weary, wounded, bent, and slow. 
And dripping from his streaming hair ? 
It is ! it is my Idaho ! 

**The gray hawks pass, O love ! and doves 
O'er yonder lodge shall coo their loves. 
My love shall heal your wounded breast. 
And in yon tall lodge two shall rest. ' ' 

Joaquin Miller. 



T' 



Recitations \nrB. Music, 



The reader should make selections of the parts to be sung from the following recitals. 
woven in with the recitation can be given with excellent effect.] 



Snatches of nuaicf 



"ABIDE WITH ME." 



#' 



J BIDE with me, fast falls the eventide," 
' * £jp A simple maiden sang with artless 

J feeUng, 

*The darkness deepens. Lord, with me abide," 
While in her voice the tender accents stealing. 
Fell softly as the dying day. 
From those sweet lips and died away. 



** The darkness deepens," and the years go by ^ 
The maiden 'neath the shadows oft has w^i- 
dered ; 
Joy, like a bird, has left its nest to fly. 

And bonds of love and happiness are sunderedi 
Lo, all the friendliness of earth 
Has taken wings, with joy and mirth. 




I I 



"^bide with me*' she could not know the 
plea — 
The utter consecration — in her dreaming ; 
♦oy, like a bird, made life a melody. 
And spring, its sun along her pathway beaming, 
Stirred her young heart with gentle fires 
And quickened her mth sweet desires. 

le darkness deepens, ' ' slowly fell the sound, 
if with plaintive grief the notes were laden, 

not a sorrow had her bosom owned, 
[Nor ever sadness touched the lovely w liden ; 

How could she sing <* Abide with me," 

Or know its hidden mystery ? 
11 



Despair, the tearless offspring of all woe — 

The lonely progeny of a world of sorrow — 
Has turned upon her, like a sudden foe, 

To snatch Hope's only legacy,- -to-morrow | 
And, shuddering in her dumb distress, 
She drinks the cup of bitterness 

" Fast falls the eventide ; " yet, to her eyes. 

The golden light of morn is faintly dawning J 
** Earth's joys grow dim," but from eternal skia 
Is borne the answer to her spirit's longing ; 
And now, as '* falls the eventide," 
She whispers, *' Ix)rd, with me abide." 
S. H. Thayeil 
161 



162 



RECITATIONS WITH MUSIC. 



TWICKENHAM FERRY. 



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©HOI'YE'HO, HO'YE-HO, Who's for 
the ferry! 
The briars in bud, the sun going down, 
And I'll row ye so quick and I'll row ye so 
steady. 
And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town. 
The ferryman's slim and the ferryman's young, 
And he's just a soft twang in the turn of his 
tongue, 
And he's fresh as a pippin and brown as a berry. 
And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town. 
O hoi-ye-hoy Ho-y^-ho, Ho-ye-ho^ Jfo, 



With her cheeks like a rose and her lips like 8 
cherry, 
**And sure and you're welcome to Twicken- 
ham Town. ' ' 
O hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho* 

O hoi-ye-ho, Ho, you're too late for the ferry y 
The briars in bud and the sun going down, 
And he's not rowing quick and he's not rowing 
steady. 
You'd think 'twas a journey to Twickenham 
Town. 



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f l» M)i-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho , P m for the ferry ^ 
' The briars in bud, the sun going down, 
And its late as it is, and I haven't a penny, 

And how shall I get me to Twickenham Town? 
She'd a rose in her bonnet, and oh ! she looked 
sweet 
^ the little pink flower that grow* in the wheat, 



" O hoi, and O ho," you may call as you will, 

The moon is a-rising on Petersham Hill, 
And with love like a rose in the stern of the 
wherry. 
There's danger in crossing to Twickenham '^ 
Town. 
O hoi-ye-ho^ Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho, * ^' 



RECITATIONS WITH MUSIC. 



163 



TWO LITTLE ROGUES. 



AYS Sammy to uick, 

** Come, hurry ! come quick ! 
And we'll do, and we '11 do, and we'll do! 
Our mammy's away, 
She's gone for to stay, 

And we'll make a great hullabaloo ! 
Ri too I ri loo / loo / loo / loo / loo f 
We'll make a great hullabaloo. ' ' 



* ' Now roll up the table. 
Far up as you are able, 

Chairs, sofa, big easy-chair too I 
Put the lamps and the vases 
In funny old places. 

How's this for a hullabaloo ? 
Ri too I ri loo ! loo! loo! loo! loot 

How' s this for a hullabaloo ? 




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Ri too! ri - loo! loo! loo! loo! loo! We'll make a great hul-la-ba-loo 




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Says Dick to Sam, 
**A11 weddy I am 

To do, and to do, and to do, 
,iut how doesth it go ? 
i so *ittle to know, 

Thay, what be a hullabawoo ? 
Ri too ! ri loo ! woo! woo! woo! woo! 

Thay, what be a hullabawoo / " 

**0h, slammingG and hangings. 
And whingings and whangings ; 

And very bad mischief we'll do! 
We'll clatter and shout, 
And knock things about. 

And that's what's a hullabaloo ! 
?/ too ! ri loo ! loo > loo ! loo ! loo ! 

And thafs whaf s a hullabaloo ! 

" Slide down the front stairs ! 
Tip over the chairs ! 

Now into the pantry break througn I 
Pull down all the tin-ware, 
And pretty things in there! 

All aboard for a hullabaloo I 
Ri toe! ri loo ! loo! Iqq! loa! tJ3o4 

Ait aboard for a hullabaloo ! 



" Let the dishes and pans 
Be the womans and mans ; 

Everybody keep still in their pew 1 
Mammy's gown I'll get next. 
And preach you a text. 

Dick ! hush with your hullabaloo ! 
Ri too ! ri loo ! loo ! loo / loo ! loo ! 

Dicky ! hush with your hullabaloo /*' 

As the preacher in gown 
Climbed up and looked down. 

His queer congregation to view. 
Said Dicky to Sammy, 
** Oh, dere comes our mammy! 

She'll 'pank for dis hullubawoo! 
Ri too ! ri loo ! woo! woo! woo! woof 

Slie' II * pank for dis hullabawoo ! 

" O mammy ! O mammy ! " 
Cried Dicky and Sammy, 

''We'll never again, certain true!' 
But with firm step she trod 
To take down the rod — 

Oh, then came a hullabaloo ! 
Bohoo ! bohoo ! woo! woo! woo! woo i 

Oh, then came a hullabaloo ! 



Mrs. A. M. Diat 



1^4 RECITATIONS WITH MUSIC 

THE DROWNING SINGER 

^HE Sabbath day was ending in a village by 
the sea, 
The uttered benediction touched the 
people tenderly, 
And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, 

lighted west, 
And then hastened to their dweUings for God's 
blessed boon of rest. 



But they looked across the waters, and a storm 

was raging there j 
A fierce spirit moved above them — the wild 

spirit of the air — 
And it lashed and shook and tore them, till they 

thundered, groaned and boomed, 
And aUs for any vessel in their yawning gulfs 

entombed ! 

Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast 

of Wales, 
Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be 

telling awful tales, 
When the sea had spent its passion, and should 

cast upon the shore 
Bits of wreck and swollen victims, as it had done 

heretofore. 

•^ She has parted in the middle ! Oh, the half 

of her goes down ! 
God have mercy I Is heaven far to seek for 

those who drown ? ' ' 
Lo I when next the white, shocked faces looked 

with terror on the sea. 
Only one last clinging figure on the spar was 

seen to be. 



Nearer the trembling watchers came the wreck, 

tossed by the wave. 
And the man still clung and floated, though wd 

power on earth could save. 
'' Could we send him a short message? Here'? 

a trumpet. Shout away ! ' ' 
'Twas t^e preacher's hand that took it, and ht 

wondered what to say. 



Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Sec- 
ondly ? Ah, no ! 

There was but one thing to utter in the awful 
hour of woe ; 

So he shouted through the trumpet, ** Look to 
Jesus ! Can you hear ? ' ' 

And ''Aye, aye, sir ! " rang the answer o'er the 
vvaters loud and clear. 

Then they listened. He is singing, ''/esus^ 

lover of my soul / ' ' 
And the winds brought back the echo, '* While 

the nearer waters roll ; 
Strange, indeed, it was to hear him, ''Till the 

storm of life is pasty ^ 
Singing bravely from the waters, '* Oh, receive 

my soul at last ! ' ' 
He could have no other refuge ! ''Hangs my 

helpless soul on thee. 
Leave, ah, leave me not / " The singer dropped 

at last into the sea. 
And the watchers, looking homeward through 

their eyes with tears made dim. 
Said, " He passed to be with Jesus in the singing 

of that hymn." 

Marianne Farningham. 

_ FINE. 





h-HOTO. BY MORRISON, ChlCAoO 

RECITATION IN COSTUME 



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icTeleon Eneass. 

Stmplice. 



Thomas Dunn fsnglish. 




I. ,Oh I don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, Who 
». Un - der the hick-o - ry tree, Ben Bolt, Which stood at the foot of the hill, To - 

3. And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,\Vith the master so kind and so true. And the 

4. There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, They have changed from the old to the new ; But I 



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wept with delight when you gave her a smile. And trembled with fear at your frown ? 
gcth-er we've lain in the noon-day shade, And Ustened to Ap - pie -ton's mill, 
sha - ded nook by the running brook, Where the fairest wild flow'is grew ? 
feel in the depths of my spir - it the truth, There never was change in you. 



In the 
The mill. 
Grass 
Twelve 



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old church-yard, in the val -ley, Ben Bolt, In a cor-ner ob-scureand a - lone, Theyhavc 

wheel has fall - en to pieces, Ben Bolt, The raft - ers have turn - bled in, And a 

grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, The spring of the brook is dry. And of 

months twen - ty have past, Ben Bolt, Since first we were friends — yet I hail Thy 



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fit - ted a slab of the granite so gray, And sweet Alice lies un 
qui - et that crawls round the walls as you gaze, Has followed the old 
all the boys who were schoolmates then, There are on - ly you 

pres-ence a blessing, thy friendship a truth, Ben Bolt of the salt 




der tfie stone, 
en din, 
and I, 

sea gale, 



They have 
And a 
And of 
Thy 




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fit - ted a slab of the granite so gray, And sweet Alice . lies im - 

qui - et that crawls round the walls as you gaze, Has fol - lowed the old 

all the boys who were schoolmates then. There are on • ly you 

presence a bless - ing, thy friendship a truth, Ben Bolt, of the salt • sea 







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ir&U Ex^rtssioH. 

1. One sum-mer 

2, I stoop'dup 



eve, with pen - sive thought, I wan-der'd on the sea - beat 
on the peb - bly strand. To cull the toys hat round roe 



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8hare.\STiere oft, in heed-less *in - fant sport, I gather'd shells in days be- fore, 
lay. But, as I took them in my hand, I threw them one by one a - way. 



I gath-er'd 
I threw them 







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ta my fan-cy wild; A dream came o'er me like a spell, I thought I was again a 
fan • cy is be - guiled ; We gather shells from youth to age. And then we leave them, like a 



chHd, A dream came o'er me like a spell, I thought I was a - gain, a - gain a child, 
child. We gath-er shells from youth to age, And then we leave them, leave them, like a child. 

,_ ^Si Grace nates to zd vcrsf. 



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One summer eve, with pensive thought, 
I wander'd on the sea-beat shore. 

Where oft, in heedless infant sport, 
I gather'd shells in days before, 
I gather'd shells in days before : 

The splashing waves like music fell. 
Responsive to my fancy wild ; 

A dream came o'er me like a spel-. 
I thought I was again a child, 

A dream came o'er me like a snel! 
1 thought I was again a chiiu. 



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I stoop'd upon the pebbly strand, 
To cull the toys that round me lay, 

But, as I took them in my hand, 
I threw them one by one away, 
I threw them one by one away : 

Oh, thus, I said, in ev'ry stage, 
By toys onr fancy is beguiled ; 

We gather shells from youth to age, 
And then we leave them, like a child^ 

We gather shells from youth to age, 
And then we leave them, like a child* 



hI^ of '^tM% 



Thos. H. Bayly. 



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Moderato, ' ' 

I. Shades of eve - ning, close not o'er 



us, Leave our lone - h 



2. 'Tis the hour when hap - py fa - ces Smile a - round the 

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3. When the waves are round me break-ing, As 

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Mom, a-lasi will not re-elore us 
Who will fill our va • cant-pla - ces, 
And my eye in vain is seek-ing 



Yon-der dim and 
Who will sing our 
Some green spot to 



dis - tant isle; 

songs to - night? 

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Still my fan - cy can dis-cov - er 
Through the mist that floats a - bove us, 
What would I not give to wan - der 



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Sun - ny spots where friends may dwell; 
Faint -lysoimds the ves - per bell: 

Where my old com - pan - ions dwell; 



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Dark - er shad - ows round us hov • er, 
Like a voice from those who love us, 
Ab - sence makes the heart grow foiid-er. 



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fee 



Isle of Beau - ty, 

Breathing fond - ly, 

Isle of Beau - ty, 

^. ^ J 



" fare thee well ! '» 
"fare thee well"' 
"fare thee well I" 



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Shades of evening, close not o'er us, 

Leave our lonely barque awhile ; 
Mom, alas ! will not restore us 

Yonder dim a'^d distant isle; 
Still my fancy can discover 

Sunny spots where friends may dwell. 
Darker -shadows round us hover, 

Isle of Beauty, " fare thee well !" 

*Tis the hour when happy faces 
Smile around the taper's light 

Who will fill our vacant places, 
Who will sing our songs to-night ? 



Through the mist that floats above us, . 

Faintly sounds the vesper bell ; 
Like a voice from those who love us. 

Breathing fondly, " fare thee well !' 

When the waves are round me breikiuj;, 

As I pace the deck alone ; 
And my eye in vain is seekintj 

Some ^een spot to rest upon : 
What would I not give to wandei 

Where my old companions dwell i 
Absence makes the heart grow ft.ndr.. 

Ule of Beauty, " fare thee w§ii I" 



^h ^%xk 0| drin. 



I'homas Campbell. 



Air, " Savonmeen DheelisL'* 



< i !■ 1^ i» » 




1. There came to the beach a poor Ex - fle of E - rin. The dew on his thin robe- 

2. "Oh! sad is my fate," said the heart-broken stran-ger, " The wild deer and wolf to a 

3. "Oh I E- rin, my coun-try, tho' sad andfor-sak - en, In dreams I re.- vis - it thy 

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heav - y and chill; For his coun - try he sighed, when at twi - light re - pair - ing To 
cov - ert can flee ; But I have no ref - uge from fam - ine and dan - ger, A 

sea • beat -en shore; But, a - lasl in a far ibr-eign land I a • wak • en. And 



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wan - der a - lone by the wind -beat -en hill.- But the day-star at- tract -ed his 
home and a coun - tiy re - main not to me. Ah I nev - er a - gain in the 
sigh for the friends who can meet me no more. Ah I cm - el fate 1 wilt thou 




eyes' sad de - vo - tion, For it rose o'er his own na - tive isle of the o - cean. Whera 
green sun -ny bow - ers, Where my fore - fa -thers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or 
nev - er re - place me In a man - sion of peace, where no per - ils can chase me ? Ah ! 




once, in the fire of his youthful e - mo - tion, He sang the boia anthem of E - rin go bragh I 
cov - er my harp with the wild-woven flow - ers, And strike to the numbers of E - rin go bragh ! 
nev - er a - gain shall my brothers em- brace me ! They died to de - fend me, or live to deplore \ 




1^ 



ap 4 '^hmxtt 



fiousseau, 1775. 



" Eousseaii's Dreanu' 



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. Dav8 of ab - sence. sad and area - ry. Clothed in sor • row's dark ar - rav : 




I. Days of ab- sence, sad and drea - ry, Clothed in 

2 Not till that loved voice can greet me, Which so 
3. All my love is tiimed to sad - ness, Ab - sence 



sor • row's dark ar - ray ; 
oft has charmed ogiine ear; 
pays the ten - der vow, 



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Days of ab - sence. I am wea - ry. She I love is tar ' a - way. 



Days of ab - sence, I am wea - ry. She I 

Not till those sweet eyes can meet me. Tell • ing 
Hopes that filled the heart with glad -ness, Mem-ory 



f I f nrr i f ri ^ ^ 



love IS lar a - way, 
that I still am dear: 
tmns to an • guish Dow; 



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Whes the heav - y sigh be ban -ished? When this bos - om cease to moom? 
Days of ab - sence then will van - ish, Joy will all my pangs re • pay; = 

Love may yet re - turn to greet me, Hope may take the place of pain; 



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Hours of bliss too quick - ly van - Ished, When will aught like you re • turn ? 
Soon my bos - om's i - dol barr - ish Gloom, but fdt when she's a - way. 
An toin ette with kiss - es meet me. Breath -ing love and peace a • gain. 



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r— t — 

r Days of absence then will vanish, 
Joy will all my pangs repay ; 
Soon my bosom's idol banish 
Gloom, but felt when she'i away 

All my love is turned to sadness, 

Absence pays the tender vow, 
Hopes that filled the heart with glad 
ness, 

Memory turns to anguish now ; 
Love may yet return to greet me, 

Hope may take the place of pain 
Antoinette with kisses meet mCj 

Breathing love and peace again. 



Days of absence, sad and dreary, 

Cloth' d in sorrow's dark array ; 
Days of absence, I am weary, 

She I love is far away. 
When the heavy sigh be banish' d ; 

When this bosom cease to mourn ? 
Hours of bliss, too quickly vanish'd. 

When will aught like you return. 

Not till that loved voice can greet me, 
Which so oft has charmed mine ear, 

Not till those sweet eyes can meet me, 
Telling that I still am dear : 



169 




^h Jm-'^uM a|ar. 



Samuel Lover. 




@p#g 



1. ^^^len first I saw sweet Peg - gy, 

2. In bat - tie's wild com - mo-tion, 

3. Sweet Peg - gy round her car, sir, 

4. I'd rath-er own that car, sir. 



'Twas on a mar-ket day. 
The proud and mighty Mars, 
Has strings of ducks and geese, 
With Peg-gy by my side. 



A lo w -backe d car sli e 



With hostile scythes, de- 
But the scores of he?Jts 
Than a coach-and-four and 




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drove, ?ina sat up - on a truss of hay; 
mands his tithes Oi death, in war- like carsj 
she slaughters By Car out-num-ber these j 
gold ga - lore, And a la - dy for my bride; 



But when that hay was bloom-ing grass, And 
While Peg - gy, peaceful god - dess, Has 
While she a-mongher poul-try sits, Just 
For the la - dy would sit fominst me, On a 



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decked with flow'rs of spring, 
darts, in her bright eye, 
like a tur - tie - dove, 
cush - ion made with taste. 



No flow'r was there that would compare With the blooming girl I 
That knock men down, in the mar-ket town, As right and left they 
Well wprth the cage, I do en-gage, Of the blooming god of 
While Peg-gy would sit be -side me With my arm a -round her 



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sing, As she sat in 
fly, While she sits in 
Love! While she sits in 
waist. As we drove in 



le low-backed car; 
her low-backed car — 
her low-backed car, 
a low-backed car, 



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The man at the tum-pike bar Nev - er 
Than bat - ties more dangerous far — For 
The lov - ers come near and far And en - 
To be manied by Fath - er Maher, Oh I my 

[Mahr.j 



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asked for the toll, But just rubbed his auld poll, And look'd af - ter me 
the doc-tor's art Can - not cure the heart That is hit from the 
vy the chicken That Peg - gy is pick - in'. As she sits in the 
heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh, Though it beat in a 



low-backed car. 

low-backed car. 

low-backed car. 

low-backed car. 




Written by Saniuel Lover, for ids eatertaiwaent caJled " Irish Eveflimjs. 



3^vt'^ fi^tttij §mm. 



Thomas Moore. 



f^i~T~i /Ij ^^^^L-UiM 



AMdaittitM, ^ 

1. Ohl the days 

2. Tho' the bard 

3. Ohl that hal - 



are gone, when beau 

to pur - er flame 

lowed form is rue'er 



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%j bright My heart's chain wove ; "When my 

may soar. When wild youth*s past ; Tho' he 

for - got, Which love first traced; Still it 

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dream of lift, from mom till night, Was love, still lovej New 

win the wise, who frowned before, T?B' smile at last; He'll 

Bnger - ing haunts the green - est spot On mem - 'ry's waste I 'Twas 



hope may bloom, and 
neV - er n eat a 
o dor fied as 



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days may come Of mild - er, calm - er beam. But there's nothing half so sweet in life As 
joy so sweet In all his noon of fame, As when first he svmg to wo -man 'sear His 
as shed ; 'Twas morning's winged dream 1 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine a - gam On 



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love*8 young dream. Oh, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream. 
soul - felt flame. And, at ev - *ry close, she blushed to hear The once • loved name, 
ife's dull stream I Oh, 'twas light that ne'er can smne a - gain On life's dull stream. 

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Oh ! the days are gone, when beauty bright, 

My heart's chain wove ; 
When my dream of life, from morn till night, 

Was love, still love ; 
New hope may bloom, and days may come 

Of milder, calmer beam, 
But there's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream, 
Oh, there's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream. 

Tho' the bard to purer flame may soar, 

When wild youth's past ; 
Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before. 

To smile at last : 
T'~'^\ never meet a joy so sweet 



In all his noon of fame, 
As when first he sung to woman's ear 

His soul-felt flame, 
And, at ev'ry close, she blushed to hea. 

The once-loved name. 

Oh, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot, 

Which love first traced ; 
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 

On mem' ry's waste ! 
'Twas odor fled as soon as shed ; 

'Twas morning's winged dream ! 
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream ! 
Oh, 'twas light that ne'er can shine agair 

On life's dull stream. 



171 



ginilrj's gatiJjhto 



E Kiallmark. 



Thomas Moore, 1817. 




to tbee* Ar - a - by's daugh-terl Thus war- bled a 
un - der Oman's green wa - ter, More pure in its 



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Pe - ri be-neath the dark sea; /Oh, fair as the sea -flow- er close to thee 
shell than thy spir - it in thee. \ Like wind of the south o'er a sum - mer lute 

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grow - hag, How light was thy heart till lovers witch-er - y came, / But long, up - on 
blow - ing, And husn'd all its mu • sic, and withered its frame I \ Of her who lies 



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Ar • a - bv's green sun - nv highlands. Shall maids and their lov - era re - mem-ber the doom 



Ar • a - by's green sun - ny highlands. Shall maids and their lov - era re - mem-ber the doom 
sleep 'ing a - mong the Pearl Islands, With naught but the sea - star to light up her tomb. 



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And still, when the merry date-season is burning, 
' And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, 
The happiest there, from their pastime returning, 

At sunset will weep when thy story is told. 
The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses 

Her dark flowing hair for some festival day. 
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, 

She mournfully turns from the mirror away. 
Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero I forget thee, — 

Tho' tyrants watch over her tears as they .start. 
Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee. 

Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart. 



■ ■ iff t(#-p 






i 



Farewell! be it ours to embellish thy pillow 

With everything beauteous that grov^ in the <?eep; 
Each flower of the rock and each gem of the bii-^" 

Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. 
Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber 

That ever the scKTOwlng sea-bird has wept; 
With many a shell, in whose hollow- wreath'd chambci, 

We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. 
Farewell! O farewell 1 until Pity's sweet fountain 

Is lost in the hearts of the fair &i\d the brave, [tain, 
They'll weep for the chieftain who died on that moun- 

They'll weep for the maiden w'lo sleeps in the wave, 



*Frgia the Fire WorsUppexs, third story told in LaUa Rookh. 




Ph OTO. BY MORRISON, CHICAGO 



A FRENCH DANCKR— SHOWING REVOI.VING SKIRT 



I "SKanier^d Irj tli^ lr00hi% 



James Hine. 



Eichard Monckton Milnes. 
(Lord Houghton.) 




1. I wan 

2. I sat 

3. He came 

4. Fast, si 



der'd by the brookside, I wan 
beneath the elm tree, I watch 'd 
not, — no, he came not, — The night 
lent tears were flow - ing. When some 



der'd by the mill, 

the long, long shade, And 

came on a - lone,-*- The lit 

thing stood be - hind) A 




could not hear the brook flow, 

as it grew still long - er, 

tie stars sa*- one by one, 

hand was on my shoul - der. 



The 
I 

Each on 



noi - gy wheel was still; 

did not feel a. - fraid; 

his gold • en throne; 



knew its tovich was kind; 



There 
For I 
The 
It 




was no burr of grasshop - p^. 
lis - ten'dfor a foot -fall, 
eve - ning air passed hf my cheek, 
drew me near - er — near - er— 



No chirp of a - ny bird, 

\ lis - ten'd for a word, 

The leaves a - bove were stirred. 

We did not speak one word. 



But the 

But the 

But the 

For the 




t^wmder*d by tbe brookside, 

I wander'd by the mill ; 
i could not hear the brook flow. 

The noisy wheel was still ; 
There was no burr of grasshopper. 

No chirp of any bird, 
But the beating of my own hear' 

Was all the sound I heard. 

1 sat beneath the elm tree, 

I watch'd the long, long shade. 
And as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid ; 
For I listen'd for a foot-fall, 

I listen'd for a word, 
"Jut the beating of my own hear* 

Was all the sound I heard. 



173 



He came not, — ^no, he came not,— 

The night came on alone, — 
The little stars sat one by one, 

Each on his golden throne ; 
The evening air passed by my cl 

The leaves above were stirred. 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast, silent tears were flowing, 

Wlien something stood behind 
A hand was on my shoulder, 

I knew its touch was kind ; 
It drew me nearer — nearer — 

We did not speak one word. 
For the beating of our own hea 

Was" all the sound we heard. 



atg'H Sdter. 



Composed for the Piano-Forte* 



By LADY DUFFEEIN. 



Andante con espressione. 



PJANO. 



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rfi=i^zzi^±i^=5zz:5l=^tiif 



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1. Och, girls dear, did you ev • er hear, I wrote my love a let • ter, And al- 



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though he can-not read, sure I thought 'twas all the het- terj For wty should be be 



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174 



KATEY'S LETTER, 




puz-zled with hard spelling in the matter, When the man-ing was so plain ihat 4 




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2 I wrote it, and I folded it, and put a seal npon it ; 

»Twa3 a seal almost as big as the crown of my best bonnet ; 
For I would not have the Postmaster make his remarks upon it, 
As I said inside the letter that I loved him faithfully. 

I love him faithfully, 
And he knows it, oh, he knows it I without one word from me. 

3 My heart was full, but when I wrote, I dared not put the half in, 
The neighbors know I love him, and they're mighty fond of chaffing 
So I dared not write his name outside, for fear they would be laugl.ir,; 
So 1 wrote, " From little Kate to one whom she loves faithfully." 

I love him faithfully, 
And he knows it, oh, he knows it ! without one word from me. 

4 Now, girls, would you believe it, that Postman, so consaited. 
No answer will he bring me, so long as I have waited ; 

But maybe there mayn't be one for the raison that I stated. 
That my love can neither read nor write, but he loves me fkilh 

He loves me faithfully, 
^jid I know wherever my love iSj that he is true to m 4 

175 




arj of th WM Poor, 



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1. One night when the wind it blew cold, 
2. "Oh, why did I leave this fair cot, 
/3. Oh, how must her fa - ther have felt 
^4. The fa • ther in grief pined a - way, 



Blew bit - ter across the wild moor, 
Where once I was happy and free ? 
When he came to the door in the morn;,' 
The child to the grave was soon borne; 



W 



Young 

Doom'd to 

There he 



And^ 




Ma • ry she came with her child, 
roam without friends and forgot, 
found Mary dead, and the child 
no one lives there to this day. 



Wand'ring home to her own father's door; Crying,. 

Oh, fa - ther, take pi - ty on me!" But her- 

Fondly clasped in its dead mother's arms, \Vhile in-^ 

For the cot - tage to ru ♦ in has gone. The 




m=^ 



'Fa • ther, O pray let me in, 
fa • ther was deaf to her cries, 
fren • zy he tore his gray hairs, 
vil - lagers point out the spot, 

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Take pi • ty on me, I im • plore, • Or the 

Not a voice or a sound reached the door; But the 

As on Ma - ry he gazed at the door, For that 

Where a wil - low droops over the door, Say- ing, 



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child at my bosom will die 

watch - dogs did howl, and the winds 

night she had perished, a - las! 

"There Ma-ry perished, a - las! 



From the 
Blew 
From the 
From the 



winds that blow o'er the wild moor. 



that blow o'er the wild mooi 

bit - ter across the wild moor. 

winds that blow o'er the wild moor. 

winds that blow o'er the wild moor.' 




One night when the tdnd it blew cold. 

Blew bitter across the wild moor, 
\ oan^ Mary she came with her child, 

Wand'ring home to her own father's dooi j 
Crying, " Father, O pray let me in, 

Take pity on me, I implore. 
Or the child at my besom will die 

From the winds that blow o'er the wild moor. 
^' Oh, why did I leave this fair cot. 

Where once I was hapfjy and free ? 
Doom'd to roam without friends and for^oV 

Oh, father, take piiy on me ! " 
But her father was deaf to her cries, 

Not a voice or a sound reached the door ; 
But the watch-dogs did howl, and the winds 

Blew bitter across the wild moor. 



176 



Oh, how must her father have felt 

When he came to the door m the morn 5 
There he found Mary dead, and the child 

Fondly clasped in its dead mother's arm^. 
While in frenzy he tore his gray hairs. 

As on Mary he gazed at the door, 
For that night she had perished, alas ! 

From the winds that blew o'er the wild inoc« 
The father in grief pined away, 

The child to the grave was soon borne? 
A.nd no one lives the"e to this day. 

For the cottage to ruin has gone. 
The villagers point out the spot, 

Where a willow droops over the door- 
Saying, " There Mary perished, alas ! 

From the winds that blow o'er the wild ; 




Pathetic Recitations. 



A TALE OF THE ATLANTIC COAST. 




E are sitting to-night by the fire, 

My Mary and me, all alone, 
A-watchin the blaze as it flickers 
In its play on the old hearthstone. 
A-watchin', a-thinkin' an' talkin'. 

About days that have long since gone, 
Before we were feeble and childless : 
Ah me ! how the seasons fly on. 



As the light of the bumin' driftwood 

Flares out on the sober brown wall, 
It shines on a sailor's sou'wester. 

Hung just where the gray shadows fall. 
*Tis the hat of our brown-haired Willie, 

And winters and winters ago 
The waves washed it up on the sea-beach 

In the rush of their hungry flow. 



These thoughts make my bosom feel heavy. 

They've silvered an' whitened my hP'T, 
And thus, as I sit in my corner, 

A-musin' and nursin' my care, 
I'm dreamin' I see our boy Willie, 

I have dreamed it often before, 
A-floatin' out there 'mongst the seaweed 

That fringes the rock-girded shore. 



There are times when, sleepin' or wakin'. 

His face beamin' joyous an' gay. 
Steals upon me from out the corners 

An' nooks where he nestled in play ; 
And it looks so lovin' an' cheerful. 

So fond in its innocent joy, 
That my heart seems almost a-br-.iikin* 

With grief for our sunny-haired boy. 



12 



Yet, now, when it's late for repentance, 

I know I was hasty an' mad, 
I might a-spoke tender an' soft like,- 

I ought to been kind to the lad. 
I told him to leave me forever. 

Yes, never to darken my door, 
And I can't forget how he answered, 

Nor the look that his brown eyes wore* 



*'Ah, father," sez he, '' for some reason 

You've kinder got tired o' me. 
But I s'pose it's time that we parted. 

An' now I'm a-goin' to sea. 
I've tried to be upright an' truthful. 

Still, somehow, there's somethin' I lack^ 
Let's part then in peace an' in friendship, 

For mebbe I'll never come back. 



"1 know, as you say, I'm soft-hearted. 

The tears sometimes come in a tide. 
But I'll try to act my part manly, 

I am young an' the world is wide. 
Think well as you can of me, father, 

I know I've not always done right. "^ 
Then I turned but only the shadows 

Were there by the summer moon's light 



I went to the door and I called him ; 

The echoes went soundin' along. 
No answer came in through the twilight, 

Exceptin' the whip-poor-will's song;— 
The sweet singin' bird seemed a mockin* 

My call as it rang through the glen, 
And I thought its melody whispered, 

"You'll never see Willie again.** 

177 



I 



178 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



So, the days and weeks kep' a-passin', 

And, still we thought, mebbe he'll come; 
We looked, an' we longed, an' we waited, 

With lips that were whitened an' dumb. 
The months became years, an' the seasons 

Went slowly a-driftin' away. 
An' Mary an' me we grew weary. 

As the hair on our heads got gray. 



Yes, many a night when the breezes 

Came sighin' in over the sea, 
We would think of our boy who wandered 

Away on its bosom so free ; 
And, whenever the storm was risin'. 

And the breakers were white with foam, 
We'd light up the window for Willie, 

For we though that he might come home. 



I remember, well I remember, 

'Twas the close of a wintry day. 
The waves on the rocks were a-dashin' 

An' hurlin' their silvery spray. 
That Mary an* me set a thinkin' 

As we would when the night grew wild, 
A-breathin' our prayers for the safety 

An' peace of our wandering child. 

The darkness fell 'round, an' the moanin' 

Of the wind, as it swept along. 
Grew sad like an' drear in our seemin', 

As it murmured its cheerless song. 
It rang 'round the weather-worn gables, 

And it sighed through the leafless trees, 
Then swept to the snows on the hillsides, 

And the cots by the inland leas. 



So, we set there, thinkin', an' listnin', 

A-watchin' the firelight run, 
When sharp through the breakers' Jeep roarin^ 

Came the sound of a signal gun. 
Quick I know some ship was in danger 

With them big, black rocks on her lee, 
And Mary, she whispered, "God bless them 

Poor sailors that's out on the sea !" 



I called to old Lion, the house dog, 

A-thinkin', perhaps, we nriglit save 
Some tired out wretch in his strugglin* 

From the chill af a watery grave ; 
And away for the sands we started. 

The guns of distress booming strong. 
And rockets sent out a red glarin' 

Through the sky as we hurried along. 



Them reefs had wrecked many a stranger, 
I'd seen many a brave ship strand, 

Heard many a cry come a-wailin' 

For help to the rock-girded land : 
But I never felt the strange flutterin' 

'Round my heart with each incoming breath 
That I did that night while a-workin', 

To save them poor fellows from death. 



Strong arms and brave hearts faced the danger 

To bring them off safe from the wreck, 
Yet the waves quenched many a heart-throb 

As they swept o'er the quiv'rin' deck ; 
Till the light of the new day dawning 

Broke in over hillside and sea, 
A-floodin' the waters with glory 

That danced in their murderous glee. 

But somehow, it seemed as though something 

Was chainin' me then to the spot ; 
It kinder appeared as if Willie, 

The boy I had waited an' sought, 
Was somewhere asleep in the ocean, 

'Mid the shells an' pearly stones. 
With sea-moss a-twinin his garland 

And the coral around his bones. 



As I stood, and with achin' vision 

Gazed out 'mid the breakers roar, 
A body came borne by the billows 

Along the wreck-littered shore. 
Nearer and nearer it floated. 

The face I had seen in my dreams, 
An' lay at my feet on the shingling, 

In the light of the sun's bright beams. 






PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



179 



A-il stiffen.d and pallid and death-like, 

Life's troubles and cares were past, 
\fter seven long years of waitin' 

Our Willie came to us at last. 
.Ve buried him under the poplars 

AVhere in summer the harebells wave, 
vMiere soft sighin' winds from the woodland 

Murmur gently around his grave. 



His Bible, a birthday offerin' 

From JSIary, we found on his breast, 
And though it is her heart's dearest treasure^ 

Yet I love his old hat the best. 
For a look at my boy's sou'westr 

As it hangs on the old brown wall, 
Brings many a memory of Willie 

When the shadows of evening fall." 

George Zeaglbs. 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 



(T T was after the din of the battle 
($) Had ceased in the silence and gloom, 
^\Tien hushed was the musketry's rattle, 
And quiet the cannon's deep boom. 
Tlie sm.oke of the conflict had lifted. 

And drifted away from the sun, 
While the soft crimson light, slowly fading from 
sight, 
Flashed back from each motionless gun. 



The tremulous notes of a bugle 
Rang out on the clear autumn air. 

And the echoes caught back from the mountains 
Faint whispers, like breathings of prayer. 

The arrows of sunlight that slanted 

Through the trees, touched a brow white as 
snow, 



On the bloody sod lying, mid the dead and th^ 
dying. 
And it flushed in the last parting glow. 

The dark, crimson tide slov/ly ebbing 

Stained red the light jacket of gray ; 
But another in blue sadh/ knelt by his side 

And watched the life passing away. 
Said the jacket in gray, ''I've a brother — 

Joe Turner— he lives up in Maine. 
Give him these — and say my last message 

Was forgiveness. ' ' Here a low moan of paia 
Checked his voice. Then — ''You'll do me thi« 
favor, 

For you shot me" — and his whisper sank low. 
Says the jacket in blue, ' ' Brother Charlie, 

There's no need — I'm your brother — I'ra 
Joe.'* V. Stuart Mosby. 



A FAIRY TALE. 




^NCE upon a time there was a very small 
child all alone in the streets of a great 
big city in a great big world. 
Now this child, unlike all the children ever 
heard of in fairy tales, was not the daughter of 
a great king and queen, and she didn't wear a 
frock trimmed with jewels, and she didn't have 
lots and lots of nurses to look after her, and she 
wasn't the heiress to the crown of a country, 
s here all the pavements were made of solid sil- 
ver, the area raiHngs of polished steel, the king's 
palace of ivory, and his ihione of pure gold, 
-ithso many precious stones sticking out of it 



that it was quite uncomfortable to sit down upou. 
No ! she was simply a very small girl indeed^ 
with nothing of the proper fairy-tale small girl 
about her at all. 

She didn't quite know how it was that she 
came to be all alone. She had an indistinct 
idea of a room somewhere near the sky ; at least 
she thought it was near the sky because . the 
clouds seemed close to her when she climbed up 
on a chair and looked out of the window, and 
the room was right at the top of ever so many 
stairs. She seemed to recall, too, that the room 
was very bare and empty, and that she had ofteo 



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been hungry and thirsty and cold there, and that 
her mother had been there, lying, on a bed and 
looking, oh ! so pale and thin, and had told her 
that she was going away to leave her, but that 
they should meet again in a bright, beautiful 
country. And she remembered too, — and as 
she remembered it the tears came into two little 
eyes and she sobbed piteously, — she remembered 
one day that her mother's face looked whiter, 
much whiter than before, and that she lay quite 
still and made no answer when the little girl 
called to her. And then some rough woman had 
told the child that her mother was dead, and 
that the room was wanted for some one else, and 
she must go. " ^ 

Ai^d so she had put on a little threadbare 
jacket and a little torn hat, through many holes 
in which her golden hair peeped out, and had 
gone away all alone — it might have been yester- 
day, to-day, she knew not when — out into the 
streets of that great big city in th?*" '^reat big 
world. 

It was a winter's evening, that once upon a 
time, and the snow was falling fast, and it was 
very cold. The little child was thinly clad (un- 
like a proper fairy-tale child), and had had no 
food for a long time, — years, it seemed to her. 

As her little steps wandered on, she passed a 
great many shops, and saw heaps and heaps of 
warm clothing and food inside great windows, 
lighted up with ever so many bright lights ; and 
she wondered how it was that she was so cold 
and hungry, and why some one did not come 
out of one of the big shops and give her clothing 
and food ; and she thought how strange it was 
that all those things should be inside the big win- 
dows that she could just look into when she stood 
on tip-toe, while she was standing there, such a 
very tiny girl and wanting ever so little of what 
she saw. 

The little child looked wistfully into the big 
bright v/indows one after another, but she shook 
and shivered so that she ran on at last although 
she felt very strange and heavy and giddy, and 
she ran and ran until she found that she had 
passed away from the bright lights and was in a 



dark road in which the snow was lying much 
more thickly, and looking much whiter, than in 
the streets through which she had gone. 

The little girl's limbs would carry her no far- 
ther, and she half sank down in the snow 3 but 
she saw suddenly, looming out in the dark by 
the wayside, a large, wooden shed, the doer ot 
which was standing wide open, and, turning hei 
fast-faiHng steps to it, she crept timidly inside. 
It was quite dark there, and she l;iy down on the 
floor with her little head pillowed against a piece 
of wood. 

Wondering drowsily why it was that she had 
ceased to be hungry or cold, and why her limbs 
seemed as if they had no feeling al all, the child 
lay there, and gradually her eyes closed. 

Suddenly she became conscious of a dazzling 
light ; and looking up she saw a beautiful fairy 
standing by her side, with white rustling wings, 
and a halo of light shining all round her. She 
was looking down on the child with a look of 
sweet compassion on her face. 

*' Little one," said the fairy in a soothing, 
gentle voice, and as she spoke she bent over the 
child and stroked the smaU face, *' welcome into 
fairyland. ' ' 

The child looked round her in speechless won- 
der, and behold ! the dark wooden shed had 
vanished and she was lying on a grassy bank, 
surrounded by lovely flowers of all colors, and 
the sun was shining above, and birds were sing- 
ing all about her, and near her troops of chil- 
dren all dressed in dazzling white were at play, 
making the air ring with joyous peals of laughter 
that seemed just to chime in with the singing of 
the birds ; and fairies, like the one standing by 
her, were watching over the children as they 
played. 

She was so filled with wonder that she answeicd 
not the fairy, and again the sweet voice said : 

" Little one, welcome into fairyland." 

* ^ Am I in fairyland ? ' ' answered the child 
this time. " They took mother away from me, 
and said she was dead, and told me to go, and I 
was very cold and hungry, and I ran ever so far^ 
and I thought I was lying down in a great dark 



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181 



place. And oh ! don't send me away; let me 
stay here, please, please let me stay here, and 
not go into the snow again. I am such a little 
thing to be all alone in the great big streets, and 
I will be so good if I m.ay stay. ' ' 

The tears started into the child's eyes as she 
f«leaded her cause, and the fairy stooped down 
and kissed them away. 

**Yes, my child, you shall stay with us in 
fairyland, and never go into the great streets 
again." 

''Oh! thank you," said the child, and she 
threw her arms around the still bending fairy, 
and kissed her again and again. 

''Just now," the little girl said presently, 
" I was, oh ! so cold and hungry and tired, and 
now I feel so peaceful and rested, and as if I 
could never be cold and hungry again. Why 
is it?" 

"There is neither hunger nor cold here, my 
little one. The sun is always shining as you see 
it now, the birds are ever singing as you hear 
them now, the flowers never fade, the leaves 
never fall, and those children now at play are 
ever bright and happy. Many little travelers 
like you have found their way into our bright 



land through paths of sorrow and suffering ; but 
see them now how joyous they are." 

The fairy pointed to the group of children ^ 
and the little girl followed the movement with 
her eyes. She looked in silence for a minute, 
and then she spoke a^ain : ' ' You are so good 
and kind, and I seem to ask so many things, but 
oh ! forgive me for one question more. The 
children that I see, have their mothers been 
taken from them as mine was taken from me ? 
and will they ever be with them again ? " 

'^My darling," answered the fairy, with infi- 
nite tenderness in her voice, ' ' they have already 
seen their mothers again, and you mil see your 
own lost mother. Look it me — look into my 
face — you knew me not at first, but you know 
me now, oh ! you know me now, my little one.'* 

The child looked into the fairy's face for an 
instant — the v.^ord "Mother!" burst from her 
lips, and the two were folded in each other's 



arms. 



Next day, when workmen came into the shed, 
They found a child there, lying cold and dead. 
And on the little upturned face they saw 
A smile so bright and joyous that in awe 
They stood uncovered. But the mortal clay 
Alone was ther^— the soul had winged its way, 

E, F. Turner. 



THE QLACIER=BED. 

In a village in Switzerland, a young guide, on the way back from his wedding, met a party of tourists, who were looking for 
a guide to explore a glacier. The bridegroom left his bride at the chalet door, as they returned from the church, she promising 
to keep a light in her window until he should come home ; but he fell through a ravine upon a glacier-bed and was lost. The 
Vddowed wife, having learned that in the course of fifty years the glacier would emerge from the ravine, waited, and her lost 
husband was found frozen in the ice, all those years after his wedding-day. 



©URNING, burning, 
night and day. 



burning for ever, by 



Let be the hght in my window, don't touch 
it, don't take it away ! 
With the sap of my life I have fed my lamp that 

its flame should burn 
fill the morn of our bridal night, till my love, 
my husband, return. 

VVhat sa^ , ->u? he is dead ! I will not believe 

it ; no ! 
We were wedded- -who can rem.ember that? 

'tis so long a^o — 



At the church of our mountain village : the 

morning light shone down 
From the glittering peaks of the Alps to circle 

my bridal crown. 

Oh me, the joy of us two that blessed day made 

one ! 
The song of the happy children, the flowers, the 

dancing sun. 
All these were about us that time he led me 

home as his bride — 
When the strangers crossed our path, and he 

heard them call for a guide. 



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PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



And duty o'ermasters love, and he dared not 

deny that call, 
For among our Alpine heroes, they knew him, 

the bravest of all : 
With a foot and an eye and an arm to match 

with his dauntless heart ; 
And I knew where his honor led — though loth 

we were to part. 

But his honor, his choice, his desire, was mine, 

for I loved him so ; 
When I looked in my darling's face I was brave 

and I bade him go. 
J stayed at our chalet door, and he tore himself 

away 
From the virgin kisses of love, and the joy of 

our marriage day. 

** I'll come back to thee, dear," he said, " when 

the mountain is veiled in night ; 
Set a lamp in thy window to shine as my star, 

my guiding light; 
Through the winding paths of ice, from beneath, 

from above 
Let my eyes be fixed on thy bridal-chamber, my 

new-wedded love.' * 



And fixed as ice was my gaze that followed him 

as he went ; 
And yet, when I saw him go, I was more than 

happy — content ; 
The warmth of his arms was around me, my lips 

had thrilled to his kiss ; 
My soul had tasted his love — could heaven be 

sweeter than this ? 



And I knew that nothing could part us more, in 

life or in death. 
I saw him not — and I saw him again, far down 

beneath. 
In the bravery of his gay wedding clothes — and 

my eyes grew dim 
With the strain and the dizzy height, as they 

looked their last on him. 



I knew he would hold to his promise — I never 

would fail of mine : 
That was our bridal night when I trimmed my 

lamp to shine 
Till he came from the fields of ice, to our chalet 

safe and warm. 
Closed in from the thickening night, and the 

smiting blast of the storm. 

That was our bridal night — hist ! the fiends of 

the mountain dance 
To the shrieks of the lost, as their grope their 

way 'neath the lightning's glance ; 
Till the dark and the dawn bring the day, and I 

wait at the chalet door 
For my bridegroom of yester-eve, for my joy 

that returns no more. 



But the sun shines on, and the path is clear from 

valley to peak; 
Whence come ye to look in my face the tale that 

ye dare not speak? 
All the rest were safe, he had led them bravely 

through, they said: 
But my own true-hearted husband was lost in the 

glacier-bed. 



He will come again, I whispered, and, pitying, 
they turned away. 

And that light still burns since we parted, it 
seems but yesterday. 

So long ago ! What ? 'Tis fifty years^ to-mor- 
row, you said : 

That was the time, I heard, when the ice should 
give back the dead, — 



When the glacier that froze his young blood, in 

the depth of the dark ravine 
Where he fell through the rift and perished, 

should work its way unseen 
Towards the mouth of the icy gulf, through the 

years of creeping days ; 
Now, now, 'tis the time, let me go, for I know 

that my bridegroom stays. 



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PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



183 



idy lamp is alight, I have toiled, I have starved 

to feed its fire. 
Through a long life slowly wasting in pangs of 

one desire. 
I thought it was never coming, and now the end 

is nigh : 
I shall look on his face that I loved in my youth, 

before I die. 



I go to seek him now, where he lies in the 

glacier-bed — 
Ah, cold and flinty pillow for my darling's 

golden head !— 
In his beauty and strength of manhood, frozen 

to changeless stone — 
There, there ! I have found him at last ! oh, my 

love, my love, my own! 

Now, bear us forth together, the bridegroom and 

the bride, 
To the church of our mountain village, and lay 

fls side by side, 



'Neath the stone where God joined us, and boun*. 

our souls in eternal truth, 
And the virgin widow shall rest with the husband 

of her youth. 

How long have I wearied for this since that day 

of bliss and woe ? 
Do the children laugh, as they say it was fifty 

years ago ? 
What has time to do with our love? for the 

spirit within me saith 
I shall meet him for evermore, when I change 

this body of death. 

He is calling me now by my name in the voicf 

of the vanished years, 
A-^d my life in its tender music dissolves to a 

passion of tears ; 
The shadows fall from the heights, the lamp in 

my window burns dim, 
The silence quenches my breath as I pass away 

to him. 

Emila Aylmer Blake. 



HELP ME ACROSS, PAPA.' 



■ HERE was anguish in the faces of those 
who bent over the little white bed, for 
they knew that baby May was drifting 
away from them, going out alone into the dark 
voyage where so many have been wrested from 
loving hands, and as they tried in vain to keep 
her, even to smooth with their kind solicitude 
her last brief sorrows, they too experienced in 
the bitter hour of parting the pangs of death. 
They only hoped that she did not suffer now. 
The rings of golden hair lay damp and unstirred 
on her white forehead ; the ro^es were turned to 
lilies on her cheeks ; the lovely violet eyes saw 
them not, but were upturned and fixed ; the 
breath on the pale lips came and went, fluttered 
and seemed loth to leave its^ sweet prison. 

Oh, the awful, cruel strength of death; the 
weakness, the helplessness, of love ! Those who 
loved her better than life could not lift a hand to 
avert the destroyer ; they could only watch and 



wait until the end should come. Her merry, 

ringing laugh would never again gladden their 
hearts ; her little feet would make no more music 
as they ran pattering to meet them. Baby May 
was dying, and all the house was darkened and 
hushed ! 

Then it was, as the shadows fell in denser 
waves about us, that she stirred ever so faintly^, 
and our hearts gave a great bound as we thoughtj 
' ' She is better ! she will live. * * Yes, she krp'a 
us ; her eyes moved from one face to th" ^tner, 
with a dim, uncertain gaze. Oh, how good God 
was to give her back ! How we could praise and 
bless him all our lives. She lifted one dainty 
hand — cold — almost pulseless, but better— we 
would have it so — and laid it on the rough 
browned hand of the rugged man who sat near- 
est to her. His eye lighted all his bronzed face 
like a rainbow as he felt the gentle pressure of 
his little daucjhter's hand, — the mute, implorinp 



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touch that meant a question. His gentle heart 
was quick to respond. 

**What is it, darHng?" he asked, in broken 
tones of joy and thanksgiving. 

She could not speak, and so we raised her on 
the pretty lace pillow, and her wee white face 
shone in the twilight like a fair star or a sweet 
'woodland flower. 

She lifted her eyes to his, — eyes that even then 
had the glory and the promise of immortality in 
tliem, and reaching out her little wasted arms 
bAid,, in her weary, flute-like voice : 

* * Help me across, papa ! ' ' 

Then she was gone ! We held to our break- 
ing hearts the frail, beautiful shell, but she was 



far away, whither we dare not follow, 
crossed the dark river, and not alone. 



She had 



" Over the riverthe boatman pale 
Carried another, the household pet, 

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 
We felt it glide from the silver sands. 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark." 

O infinite Father ! When we weary and dis- 
appointed ones reach our pleading hands to thee^ 
wilt thou take us even as the little child, and 
help us across over the mountains of defeat and 
the valleys of humiliation into the green pas- 
tures and beside the still waters, in the city of 
the New Jerusalem, whose builder and maker is 
God? 



THE PECULIAR NEIGHBOR. 




E is so very peculiar," 

His neighbors said with a smik, 
"He works in the quarry yonder, 
Tho distance of half a mile. 
He never complains or grumbles. 

But labors till close of day. 
He is old and wretched and friendless, 
And very peculiar, they say.'* 

That was all. He was very '* peculiar," 

I found of the village folk. 
And lived in a -little cottage alone, 

* Neath the shade of a sheltering oak. 
In the midst of a tiny garden patch, 

Just back from the noisy street. 
But the heart that throbbed 'neath his ragged 
coat 

Was as noble a heart as beat. 

Yes, he was truly *' peculiar," 

I heard, with a wondering start. 
Of the kindly deeds that were daily done 

By that good, old-fashioned heart. 
His coat, so ragged and worn with time, 

A brother might freely share : 
Contented he with only a smile 

And a fervently whispered prayer. 



When evening came, and he sat alone" 

In his vine-wreathed doorway low. 
Who cared if his lonely heart grew sad ? 

His bitterness who should know ? 
And when he brushed, with his aged hand, 

The dew from his eyes so dim. 
What mattered it if he pondered o'er 

The days that were sweet to him? 



But then, when the sun in the heavens rose, 

He was up again with a smile. 
Trudging along, in his shabby clothes. 

The distance of half a mile. 
While the children clung to his sunburnt hands 

As he went on his cheery way ; 
And I wished to God, as I saw him pass, 

That more were "peculiar" to-day. 



One morn, when the sun shone clear and bright 

There came a knock at his door ; 
But all was still, though the sunlight fell 

Over the cottage floor. 
Said one, ' ' Is the old man asleep or dumb ? 

Does he know it's the noon of day? " 
But another shrugged his shoulders, and said: 

"It's his odd, peculiar way," 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



185 



They passed up the rickety attic stair, 

Where, with never a sob or a moan, 
The old man lay in his final rest, 

With his hands close 29..ded, alone. 
Was he sleeping ? yes ! for his eyes were 
closed ; 

His dreams were sweet, for he smiled ; 
And the smile that lay on his lips was as fair 

As that of a little child. 



Then they said, ah, never a thoughtless word, 

But bore him tenderly down, 
With a whispered prayer, to the churchyard 
small, 

Just out of the noisy town. 
They missed him then who had never borne 

In their selfish lives a part ; 
But God knew all, and had not forgot 

That good, '^peculiar" heart. 

Harriet M. Spaulding. 



A DEPOT INCIDENT. 

' Beyond the Alpine heights of great pain 
Lieth Italy." 



^^HE train from the north had halted and 
(^^ then rushed on, screaming like some liv- 
ing thing as it entered the wood. The 
slow and snorting ''accommodation" had re- 
leased three or four begrimed passengers and 
then belched its way forward. The train from 
the south-west was already in sight, and still I 
had two hours to wait. 

The small depot could offer no enchantments 
to beguile the time. Three or four pale women 
sat bolt upright in dead silence, staring stonily 
at each other, and the restless solitary old beau 
began to show signs of ill temper because he 
could attract no one's attention. Weary of the 
place, I went outside to look for more inspiring 
sights. 

The scene was as restful as the one I had turn- 
ed away from was wearisome. In the west the 
hills towered far into the heavens. A mile to 
'■•he north lay the town, a cluster of white walls, 
gi^y spires and green trees, on which the peace 
that passeth all understanding seemed to rest. 
Between it and the little depot a shining river 
wandered noiselessly to the sea ; and the sun, 
hanging low in the western sky, was gilding 
everything with an inimitable glory. 

The train from the southwest unloaded an 
assortment of travelers, some of whom were not 
disposed to do their waiting passively. They 
had already given the room an air of action. 

There was one who would have been a piteous 
figure anywhere — a man whose pinched face was 



ghastly with the greenish tinge of consumption. 
It needed no close investigation to show that he 
was nearly done with earthly things. He leaned 
heavily on his wife's arm, iiis thin body robbed 
of its fictitious strength by a long journey. 

I offered my aid to the woman, and together 
we made a place for him on a bench by the 
western window. He lay quite still, as though 
rest after the weariness of travel was very grate- 
ful. His black eyes looked through the open 
door at the quiet landscape with an eager inquiry 
in their burning depths. They seemed to b^ 
looking for something they did not see but ex 
pected to at any moment. He said nothing 
The sunlight streamed in and fell upon his boi> . 
hands and covered his gaunt figure like an aurt' ■ 

The man was dying, but he did not know i\ 
and his wife did not know it ; and what good 
would it do to tell her ? She could not hold 
the sand in his hour-glass a single second longer 
than the law of his destiny had decreed. All 
her faithful love could not do that. 

They were Italians, and she had given him the 
patient, dog-like love of the women of her race. 
She had been his slave as well as his wife, for 
though the Italian boasts that his love is more 
fervent than any other upon earth, its selfishness 
and tyranny are unrivaled among races. 

She fanned him with a fan covered with fairy 
figures and carved in dainty patterns, — a bit of 
rare old art strangely out of place in her hands, 
which were rough and misshapen from years of 



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PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



outdoor toil. I thought of the romances of the 
inanimate world as I looked at it. 

Life had not been easy for this dark, patient 
woman. Hardship and labor had left their cruel 
marks upon her face, which though bronzed and 
lined was not without great beauty of expression, 
the deathless beauty which is born of the soul's 
sweetness. 

There had been none of the glamour which 
envelops pleasant paths to preserve her love from 
destruction, It had all been homely, hard, un- 
uninviting, yet there she was faithful to the end, 
faithful in love as well as in duty. 

In her soft Southern voice, with its pretty 
accent, she told me their story, which was only 
':iie of ''the short and simple annals of the poor," 
easily recited and without the flavor of the un- 
usual. 

They had been vine growers on the hills of 
Tuscany. Hearing wonderful tales of this great 
nviw country fifteen years ago, they had come 
here to "m.ake a good home," she said. It had 
been hard work at first, but no harder than on 
their native hills, and after a time they owned a 
house and some ground in the west, and raised 
small fruits. They had prospered pecuniarily, 
but not otherwise. Three children had been 
given them, but all were asleep in the bosom of 
the earth, "their souls with the everlasting God," 
she devoutly added, crossing herself reverently. 

Then she told me how her husband, little by 
little, lost his strength. Sometimes he was al- 
most well, and again so weak, and always grow- 
ing thinner of flesh, though always sure that he 
would be well the next month or the next season. 
At last he imagined that if he could go home to 
his own hills, to Italy, he would recover. The 
Italian sun would warm him into life. He 
seemed suddenly weary of everything here, she 
said, even the sky and the stars, and talked 
always of his early home. 

'Ttaly ! Italy! Beyond the mountains and 
the sea," broke in the sick man in his own 
tongue, smiling feebly. 

And in this hope they had started. He had 
been 30 eager to get away tha.t; the few days con- 



sumed in their preparations had been longer to 
him than all the years of their stay. He had 
grown better as soon as they started, so much 
better that in her patient ignorance she could 
not understand why he had suddenly lost hi.; 
strength. She was sure the sea would revive hi hi, 
and that the sunshine on his native hills, where 
the grapes were like flowers in their heavy per 
fume, would restore him. 

''But I told him," she said, and her kind 
eyes grew sad, "I told him that it would be all 
changed there. The young men and the maidens 
we danced with years ago would not be there. 
They would be gone or old, like ourselves." 

"Italy never changes," said the sick man in 
Italian and looking far out on the green fields, 
as though his lips merely voiced a thought not 
meant for other ears. 

It seemed incredible that the woman, who was 
bright and fairly intelligent, did not know that 
her husband's longing for Italy was that curious 
restlessness which precedes dissolution, and which 
is always exaggerated in consumptive patients. 
Yet she had known nothing but his will for years, 
how should she know this ? 

The gates of the other world were even then 
opening to receive his spirit and still she babbled 
on, speaking of the children, the journey, and — 
Italy. 

"Beyond the mountains and the sea— Italy," 
said the dying man in Italian, looking far off" to 
the eastern horizon, upon which was the royal 
gilding of the setting sun. 

The next instant an ominous rattle sounded 
through the big, bare room, and in his eyes there 
shone a sudden and overwhelming surprise. 
Instinctively understanding that he suffered, his 
wife raised his head in her arms ; but before she 
could speak even an endearing word his soul had 
departed upon its journey, "without the sound 
of wings or footfall." In a single moment he 
had reached Italy, the eternal Italy which lieth 
"beyond the Alpine heights of great pain." 

We lifted his head from the faithful arm which 
had raised his struggling spirit into heaven and 
laid it again on the pillow of shawls. 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



187 



The wife did not at first understand what had 
happened ; but as she looked at the white face 
of the dead man, upon which still lingered the 
trace of that wonderful surprise which swept over 
him when his soul confronted the vision of its 
new life, the awful truth revealed itself. She did 
not cry out. She did not weep. She did not 
speak. But upon her kind face there was a look 
of awe inexpressibly agonizing. She sank slowly 
to her knees, with her startled eyes turned 
upward as if trying to follow the soul that had 
suddenly vanished from the earth. 

She stretched out her rough, kind hands and 
clasped those of her dead husband, and laid her 
head upon them with a dumb anguish that was 
heartrending. 

We turned away without speaking. The awful 
silence that walks close upon the footsteps of 
Death settled upon the place. Every person was 
standing, every head bent. Two majestic pres- 
ences, Death and his twin brother Grief, had 
transfigured the mean and dingy depot and made 
it a place where the human heart felt the pres- 
ence of the unchangeable God. 

The round clock on the wall ticked off the 
seconds with ceaseless energy, emphasizing the 



unnatural stillness of the room and no one 
seemed willing by a footstep to break the silence. 

Tick ! Tick ! Tick ! Over and over, again 
and again, the clock told the story of the speed- 
ing moments. From the distance came the 
rumble of an in -coming train — their train — and 
one by one with bowed heads the waiting 
travelers walked out upon the platform : but the 
Italian woman neither moved nor spoke. 

Over her kneeling figure and the breathless 
body of her husband the dying sun threw a flood 
of glory, draping both Death and Grief in a 
mantle of bright beauty. 

An old woman who stood by went close to the 
stricken wife and bent to raise her head. '* See ! ' ' 
she said in a startled voice, "See ! she has 
followed him to Italy." 

It was true. The hands that clasped the dead 
man's with such tender love were as cold as his 
own. The head that rested on his breast was 
heavy and lifeless. The kind eyes were glazed 
and vacant, the sweet face rigid, the soft voice 
stilled forever. 

* ' Beyond the mountains and the sea, ' ' beyond 
all heights, beyond all pain they had suddenly 
journeyed together. Gertrude Garrison. 



THE PAUPER GIRL. 



^!!!>vNLY a pauper," ne neighbors said, 
\^^yj As they coaxed away from death's 
low bed 
A weeping child, her young heart sore, 

Because "dear mamma" would speak no more. 

They gave her a home such as paupers have. 
To eat and to sleep in, but none to love ; 

None to list to her childish prattle. 

Or teach her to win in life's great battle. 

' ' Oh, where can I go ? " Long years had flown, 
And the helpless girl stood all alone ; 

Alone in the world, in its cold and its storm. 
With none to pity or save from harm. 

She might have been fair, but care and want 
Had stolen her bloom, left her pale and gaunt; 



Robbed her rife of its sunshine and flowers, 
And fraught with sorrow her girlhood's hours 

The rich, the poor, they heeded not 
The friendless girl — her hard, hard lot ; 

Selfishly, coldly, they passed her by, 
To struggle alone, to live or to die. 

One open door — they wanted her there — 
The place seemed cheerful, its inmates fair i 

The music, the birds, the flowers, the light 
All lured her on with their promise bright 

The tempter was nigh with his pictures fair 
Of ease and plenty awaiting here there ; 

Like leaf engulfed in eddying whirl 

Was tempted and lost that homeless girl. 



188 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



O child of wealth, if ye knew the power 
The tempter wields in the darksome hour, 

You would pity the paupers, invite them in. 
And shield them alike from shame and sin. 

Nor fear of soiling your dainty hands. 
Nor fear of breaking society's bands, 



Would close as now your heart and your door 
Against the sorrowing, sinning poor. 

Nay, yours is the sin, if sin there be — 
You should have assisted such as she ; 

Have paused in your round of fashion and whirl, 
And saved from ruin that pauper girl. 

Georgene Traver. 



ABSALOM. 



HE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung 
low 
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd 
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, 
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse, 
llie reeds bent down the stream ; the willow 

leaves. 
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide. 
Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems. 
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse. 
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way. 
And lean'd in graceful attitudes to rest. 
How strikingly the course of nature tells. 
By its light heed of human suffering, 
That it was fashion' d for a happier world I 



King David's limbs were weary. He hao^ Hed 
.^rom far Jerusalem ; and now he stood, 
j.With his faint people, for a little rest 

'pon the shores of Jordan. The light wind 
"Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow 
To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt 
That he could see his people until now. 
They gather' d round him on the fresh green 

bank. 
And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun 
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there. 
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray. 
Oh ! when the heart is full — when bitter thoughts 

LCome crowding quickly up for utterance. 
And the poor common words of courtesy 
Are such an empty mockery — how much 
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! 
I 




Pie pray'd for Israel — and his voice went up 
Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for those 
Whose love had been his shield — and his deep 

tones 
Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — 
For his enstranged, misguided Absalom — 
The proud, bright being who had burst away, 
In all his princely beauty, to defy 
The heart that cherish' d him — for him he pour'd 
In agony that would not be controll'd, 
Strong supplication, and forgave him there, 
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 



The pall was settled. He who slept beneati. 
Was straighten' d for the grave; and, as the folds 
Sank to the still proportions, they betray' d 
The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 
Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd 
To the admitted air, as glossy now 
As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing 
The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. 
His helm was at his feet ; his banner, soil'd 
With trailing through Jernsalem, was laid. 
Reversed, beside him ; and the Jewell' d hilt. 
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade. 
Rested, like mockery, on his cover' d brow. 
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro. 
Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, 
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier. 
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, 
As if he feared the slumberer might stir. 
A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his blade 
As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent forn? 




PHOTO. BY MORRISON, CHICAGO 



I'VE PUr THE SOUL OF LAUGHTER IN MY FACE. 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



m 



Of David enter' d, and he gave command, 

In a low tone, to his few followers. 

And left him with his dead. The king stood 

still 
Till the last echo died ; then, throwing off 
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 
The pall from the still features of his child, 
He bow'd his head upon him, and broke forth 
In the resistless eloquence of woe. 

' 'Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die ! 

Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! 
That death should settle in thy glorious eye. 

And leave his stillness in this clustering hair ! 
How could he mark thee for the silent tom^b, 
My proud boy, Absalom ! 

*'Cold is thy brow, my son, and I am chill. 

As to my bosom I have tried to press thee : 
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill. 

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress 
thee. 
And hear thy sweet 'My father?' from these 
dumb 

And cold lips, Absalom ! 

*'But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush 
Of music and the voices of the young ; 

And life will pass me in the mantling blush, 
And the dark tresses to the soft wind flung ; 



But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt 
come 

To meet me, Absalom ! 

''And oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart, 

Like a bruised reed, is wasting to be broken, 
How will its love for thee, as I depart. 

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep 
token ! 
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, 
To see thee, Absalom ! 

"And now, farewell ! ' Tis hard to give thee up; 

With death so like a slumber on thee ; 
And thy dark sin ! — oh ! I could drink the cup, 

If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. 
May God have call'd thee like a wanderer, 
home. 

My lost boy, Absalom ! ' ' 

He cover' d up his face, and bow'd himself 
A moment on his child ; then giving him 
A. look of melting tenderness, he clasp' d 
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ! 
And, as if a strength were given him of God, 
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 
Firmly and decently, and left him there. 
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 

Nathaniel P. Willis. 



A BRAVE BOY. 




O this is our new cabin-boy ; ' ' was my 
inward exclamation, as I walked on 
deck and saw a dark-eyed, handsome 
youth, leaning against the railing and gazing 
with a sad, abstracted air into the foamy waves 
that were lustily dashing against the vessel. 
I had heard a good many remarks made about 
him by the crew, who did not like him because 
he seemed somewhat shy of them, and they were 
continually tormenting him with their rough 
jokes. He had refused to drink any intoxica- 
ting liquor since he came on board, and I was 
curious to know more about him. 

My interest and sympathy were aroused, and 



I resolved to watch over and protect him as far 
as possible from the ungovernable temper of the 
captain, and the rough jokes of the sailors. 

A few days afterward I was standing beside 
the captain, when suddenly rough shouts and 
laughter broke upon our ears ; we went to the 
fore part of the deck, and found a group of 
sailors trying their utmost to persuade Allen to 
partake of their grog. 

"Laugh on," I heard Allen's firm voice 
reply, " but I'll never taste a drop. You ought 
to be ashamed to drink it yourselves, much more 
to offer it to another. ' ' 

A second shout of laughter greeted the reply. 



190 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 




and one of the sailors, emboldened by the cap- 
tain's presence, who they all knew was a great 
drinker himself, approached the boy and said : 

* ' Now, my hearty, get ready to keel roight over 
on your beam end, whin ye've swallowed this." 
\ He was just going to pour the Hquor down his 
'throat when, quick as a flash, Allen seized the 
bottle and flung it far overboard. While the 
sailors were looking regretfully after the sinking 
bottle, Allen looked pale but composed at Cap- 
tain Harden, whose face was scarlet with sup- 
pressed rage. I trembled for the boy's fate. 
Suddenly Captain Harden seized him and cried 
out sternly : 

'^ Hoist this fellow aloft into the main topsail. 
I'll teach him better than to waste my property ! ' ' 

Two sailors approached him to execute the 
order; but Allen quietly waved them back, and 
said in a low, respectful tone : 

''I'll go myself, captain, and I hope you will 
pardon me : I meant no offence. ' ' I saw his 
hand tremble a little as he took hold of the rig- 
ging. For one unused to the sea it was extremely 
dangerous to climb that height. For a moment 
he hesitated, as he seemed to measure the dis- 
tance, but he quietly recovered himself, and pro- 
ceeded slowly and carefully. 

''Faster! " cried the captain, as he saw with 
what care he measured his steps, and faster Allen 
tried to go, but his foot jlipped, and for a 
moment I stood horror-struck, gazing up at the 
dangling form suspended by the arms in mid-air. 
A coarse laugh from the captain, a jeer from the 
sailors, and Allen again caught hold of the rig- 
ging, and soon he was in the watch-basket. 

' ' Now, stay there, you young scamp, and get 
"some of the spirit frozen out of you, ' ' muttered 
the captain, as he went down into the cabin. 
Knowing the captain's temper, I dared not inter- 
fere while he was in his present state of mind. 
By nightfall, however, I proceeded to the cabin, 
and found him seated before the table, with a 
half empty bottle of his favorite champagne 
before him. I knew he had been drinking 
freely, and therefore had little hope that Allen 
Would be released ; still I ventured to say : 



"Pardon my intrusion, Captain Harden, bnt 
I'm afraid our cabin-boy will be sick if he is 
compelled to stay up there much longer." 

"Sick! bah, not a bit of it; he's got too 
much grit in him to yield to such nonsense ; no 
person on board my ship ever gets sick ; they 
know better than to play that game on me. But 
I'll go and see what he is doing, anyhow." 

Upon reaching the deck, he shouted through 
his trumpet : 

"Ho! my lad." 

"Aye, aye, sir," was the faint but prompt 
response from above, as Allen's face appeared, 
looking with eager hope for his release. 

' ' How do you like your new berth ? ' ' was 
the captain's mocking question. 

"Better than grog or whiskey, sir," came the 
quick reply from Allen. 

"If I allow you to descend, will you drink the 
contents of this glass ? ' ' and he held up, as he 
spoke, a sparkling glass of his favorite wine. 

"I have forsworn all intoxicating drinks, sir, 
and I will not break my pledge, even at the risk 
of my life. ' ' 

"There, that settles it," said the captain, 
turning to me; "he's got to stay up there to- 
night; he'll be toned down before morning." 

By early dawn Captain Harden ordered him 
to be taken down, for to his call, "Ho, my lad ! ' ' 
there was no reply, and he began to feel alarmed. 
A glass of warm wine and biscuit were standing 
ready for him beside the captain, who was sober 
now ; and when he saw tl^e limp form of Allen 
carried into his presence by two sailors his voice 
softened, as he said : 

"Here, my lad, drink that and I will trouble 
you no more." 

With a painful gesture, the boy waved him 
back, and in a feeble voice said : 

' ' Captain Harden, will you allow me to tell 
you a little of my history ? ' ' 

"Go on," said the captain, "but do not 
think it will change my mind ; you have to drink 
this just to show you how I bend stiff necks on 
board my ship. ' ' 

"Two weeks before I came on board this ship 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



191 



I stood beside my mother's cofifin. I heard the 
dull thud of falling earth as the sexton filled the 
grave which held the last remains of my darling 
mother. I saw the people leave the spot ; 1 was 
alone, yes, alone, for she who loved and cared 
for me was gone. I knelt for a moment upon 
the fresh turf, and while the hot tears rolled 
down my cheeks, I vowed never to taste the 
liquor that had broken my mother's heart and 
ruined my father's life. 

' ' Two days later, I stretched my hand through 
the prison bars, behind which my father was con- 
fined. I told him of my intention of going to 
sea. Do with me what you will, captain ; let 
me freeze to death in the mainmast ; throw me 
into the sea below, anything, but do not, for my 
dear mother's sake, force me to drink that poison 
that has ruined my father, and killed my mother 
Do not let it ruin a mother's only son ! " 

He sank back exhausted, and burst into a fit 
of tears. The captain stepped forward, and lay- 
ing his hand, which trembled a little, upon the 



boy's head, said to the crew who had collected 
round : 

' ' For our mothers' sake, let us respect Allen 
Bancroft's pledge. And never," he continued, 
firing up, ^'let me catch any of you ill-treating , 
him." 

He then hastily withdrew to his apartment. 
The sailors were scattered and I was left alone 
with Allen. 

' ' Lieutenant, what does this mean ? Is it 
possible that — that — '* 

''That you are free," I added, ''and that 
none will trouble you again." 

" Lieutenant," he said, " if I was not so ill 
and cold just now, I think I'd just toss my hat 
and give three hearty cheers for Captain Harden. ' ' 

He served on our vessel three years, and was 
a universal favorite. When he left. Captain 
Harden presented him with a handsome gold 
watch as a memento of his night in the main- 
mast, and the hardy sailor sent the youth away 
with a blessing on his head. 



CHILDLESS. 



fT was dreary and desolate weather. 
As we sat by the window together ; 
The hoarse blast rumbled and grumbled. 
The dead branches crackled and crumbled. 

And the thick flakes fluttered and drifted ; 
In visions my dear little girl 

Lay smiling ; a current uplifted 
From her forehead a gold-tangled curl ; ' 
\nd I thought, "Life is not without pleasure 
o long as I fondle ^^ "s treasure ; 
' lid though formerly death has bereft me,] 
My one little darling is left me." 
Contented, I quietly kissed her. 
And I thought of her sweet little sister 
Lying under the cold and the snow. 

As she lay with my fingers entwining 
Her ringlets so silken and shining, 
In her face came a pallor and sadness 
That instantly drove me to madness — 
From my cheek all the color retreated. 



When I saw the last smile of the dead 
On the lips of the living repeated, ^ 
And I felt such a sickening dread ; 
But I smiled, though half breathless with teirof. 
And I said, "What a fanciful error ! 
Let me banish this horrible feeling. 
Or in frenzy my brain will go reeling," — 
But the tear in my eyelid would glister 
As I thought of her sweet little sister 
Lying under the cold and the snow. 

I smiled, but the smile swiftly froze oi 
My lips when I saw the same clothes on 
That her sister had worn ; and the jewel 
That flashed on her neck added fuel 

To anguish ; in frenzy I tore them, 
Though I tried to dismiss all my fear 

By repeating that often she wore them^j 
And my terror would soon disappear. 
Then I struggled to calm my emotion 
And to banish this terrible notion; 



192 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



But this dread so relentlessly haunted 
That all happier fancies were daunted ; 
And I thought it was strangely sinister 
That she wore the same clothes as her sister, 
Lying under the cold and the snow. 

Then her cheek I imagined, grew whiter. 
And her breathing came lighter and lighter ; 
With horrors my senses were teeming. 
And I suddenly found I was screaming, 
* * Wake, wake, O my darling, awaken ! ' ' 
She murmured and turned in her sleep. 

And I saw that I had been mistaken ; 
But these terrible fancies would creep 
Through my soul till I nearly lost reason ; 
Her sister had died in this season — 
Oh, was it a mere superstition. 
Or was it a sad premonition ? 
Half frantic, I kissed her and kissed her : 
As I thought of her sweet little sister 

Lying under the cold and the snow. 

Then over my heart crept a sickness. 
And into my voice came a thickness, 
And I murmured, *' All-merciful Father, 
Oh, spare me this little one ; rather 
Take me ; one poor little flower 



Went under the cold and the snow 

In a dreary and desolate hour, 
Must also the other one go ? 
My life would be stripped of all pleasure 
If robbed of my sweet little treasure ; 
Though once Thou didst sadly bereave me, 
In mercy this little one leave me ; 
Heart-broken I'd be if I missed her 
As often I miss her sweet sister, 

Lying under the cold and the snow. *' 

It is dreary and desolate weather — 
But we sit not, we sit not together • 
The hoarse blasts rumble and grumble, 
The dead branches crackle and crumble, 

And thickly the snowflakes are drifting j 
Asleep is my dear little girl. 

But no wandering current is lifting 
From her forehead the gold-tangled curl ; 
And my life is devoid of all pleasure. 
No longer I fondle my treasure ; 
A second time death has bereft me. 
Not one little darling is left me ; 
And forever my hot tears will glister 
For her and her sweet little sister 

Lying under the cold and the snow. 

Ben Wood Davis. 




THE DEATH OF THE OLD SQUIRE. 

[Read with great success by Charlotte Cushmar„] 

^WAS a wild, mad kind of night, as black 
as the bottomless pit ; 
The wind was howling away like a 
Bedlamite in a fit. 
Tearing the ash boughs off, and mowing the 

poplars down, 
In the meadows beyond the old flour mill, where 
you turn off to the town. 



A.nd the rain (well, it diW rain) dashing against 

the window glass, 
And deluging on the roof, as the Devil were 

come to pass ; 
The gutters were running in floods outside the 

stable door, 



And the spouts splashed from the tiles, as they 
would never give o'er. 



Lor', how the winders rattled ! you'd almost 

ha' thought that thieves 
Were wrenching at the shutters, while a ceaseless 

pelt of leaves 
Flew to the doors in gusts ; and I could hear 

the beck 
Falling so loud I knew at once it was up to a tall 

man's neck. 



We was huddling in the harness-room by a little 

scrap of fire. 
And Tom, the coachman, hfe was there a-practis- 

ing for the choir. 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



193 



But it sounded dismal, anthem did, for Squire was 

dying fast, 
And the doctor said, do what he would. Squire's 

breaking up at last. 

The death-watch, sure enough, ticked loud just 

over th' owd mare's head, 
Though he had never once been heard up there 

since master's boy lay dead ; 
And the only sound, besides Tom's toon, was 

the stirring in the stalls. 
And the gnawing and the scratching of the rats 

in the owd walls. 

We couldn't hear Death's foot pass by, but we 
knew that he was near. 

And the chill rain and the wind and cold made 
us all shake with fear ; 

We listened to the clock up-stairs, ' twas breath- 
ing soft and low 

For the nurse said, at the turn of night the old 
Squire's soul would go. 

Master had been a wildish man, and led a rough- 

ish life ; 
Didn't he shoot the Bowton squire, who dared 

write to his wife ? 
He beat the Rads at Hindon Town, I heard, in 

twenty-nine. 
When every pail in market-place was brimmed 

with red port wine. 

And as for hunting, bless your soul, why, for 

forty year or more 
He'd kept the Marley hounds, man, as his 

fayther did afore ; 
And now to die and in his bed — the season just 

begun — 
*'It made him fret," the doctor said, ^'as it 

might do any one. ' ' 

And when the sharp young lawyer came to see 
him sign his will, 
[uire made me blow my horn outside as we 
were going to kill ; 
And we turned the hounds out in the court — 

(that seemed to do him good j 



For he swore, and sent us off to seek a fox m 
Thornhill Wood. 

But then the fever it rose high and he would go 

see the room 
Where mistress died ten years ago when Lam- 

mastide shall come ; 
I mind the year, because our mare at SaUsbury 

broke down ; 
Moreover, the town-hall was burnt at Steeple 

Dinton Town. 

It might be two, or half-past two, the wind 

seemed quite asleep ; 
Tom, he was off, but I, awake, sat watch and 

ward to keep ; 
The moon was up, quite glorious like, the rain 

no longer fell, 
AVhen all at once out clashed and clanged the 

rusty turret bell. 

That hadn't been heard for twenty year, not 

since the Luddite days. 
Tom he leaped up, and I leaped up, for all the 

house a-blaze 
Had sure not scared us half so much, and out 

we ran like mad, 
I, Tom and Joe, the whipper-in, and t' little 

stable lad. 

''He's killed himself," that's the idea that came 

into my head ; 
I felt as sure as though I saw Squire Barrowly 

was dead ; 
When all at once a door flew back, and he met 

us face to face ; 
His scarlet coat was on his back, and he looked 

like the old race. 

The nurse was clinging to his knees, and crying 

like a child ; 
The maids were sobbing on the stairs, for he 

looked fierce and wild; 
''Saddle me Lightning Bess, my men," that's 

what he said to me: 
"The moon is up, we're sure to find at Stop oi 

Etterly. 



194 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



*<Get out the dogs; I'm well to-night, and 

young again and sound, 
I'll have a run once more before they put me 

under ground ; 
They brought my father home feet first, and it 

never shall be said 
That his son Joe, who rode so straight, died 

quietly in his bed. 

*< Brandy!" he cried; ''a tumbler full, you 

women howling there, ' ' 
Then clapped the old black velvet cap upon his 

long gray hair, ' 

Thrust on his boots, snatched down his whip, 

though he was old and weak ; 
There was a devil in his eye that would not let 

me speak. 

We loosed the dogs to humor him, and sounded 

on the horn; 
The moon was up above the woods, just east of 

Haggard Bourne. 
1 buckled Lightning's throat-lash fast, the Squire 

was watching me ; 
He let the stirrups down himself so quick, yet 

carefully. 

Then up he got and spurred the mare and, ere I 

well could mount. 
He drove the yard-gate open, man, and called to 

old Dick Blount, 
Our huntsman, dead five years ago — for the fever 

rose again. 
And was spreading like a flood of flame fast up 

into his brain. 

Then off he flew before the dogs, yelling to call 

us on, 
tVhile we stood there, all pale and dumb, scarce 

knowing he was gone ; 



We mounted, and below the hillwe saw the fox 

break out, 
And down the covert ride we heard the old 

Squire's parting shout. 

And inthe moonlit meadow mist we saw him fly 

the rail 
Beyond the hurdles by the beck, jupt half way 

down the vale ; 
I saw him breast fence after fence — nothing could 

turn him back ; 
And in the moonlight after him streamed out the 

brave old pack. 

' Twas like a dream, Tom cried to me, as we 

rode free and fast. 
Hoping to turn him at the brook, that could no* 

well be passed, 
For it was swollen with the rain ; but ah, 'twas 

not to be ; 
Nothing could stop old Lightning Bess but the 

broad breast of the sea. 

The hounds swept on, and well in front tb 

mare had got her stride ; 
She broke across the fallow land that runs by the 

down side. 
We pulled up on Chalk Linton Hill, and, as we 

stood us there. 
Two fields beyond we saw the Squire fall stone 

dead from the mare. 

Then she swept on, and in full cry the hounds 
went out of sight; 

A cloud came over the broad moon and some- 
thing dimmed our sight, 

As Tom and I bore master home, both speaking 
under breath ; 

And that's the way I saw th' owd Squire ride 
boldly to his death. 



DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. 



Y little and little, the old man drew back 
towards the inner chamber, while these 
words were spoken. He pointed there, 
us he replied, with trembling lips,— 

**You plot among you to wean my heart from 



her. You will never do that — never while I have 
life. I have no relative or friend but her — I never 
had — I never will have. She is all in all to me. 
It is too late to part us now. ' ' 

Waving them off with his hand, and calling 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



195 



jsoftly to i»er i^^ )i^ yfQnt, he stole into the room. 
They who were left behind drew close together, 
and after a few whispered words, — not unbroken 
by emotion, or easily uttered, — followed him. 
They moved so gently, that their footsteps 
made no noise, but there were sobs from among 
the group, and sounds of grief and mourning. 

For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, 
she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no 
marvel now. 

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and 
calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look 
upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the 
hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life ; 
not one who had lived and suffered death. 

Her couch was dressed with here and there, 
some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in 
a spot she had been used to favor. '^When I 
die, put near me something that has loved the 
light, and had the sky above it always. ' ' These 
were her words. 

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble 
Nell was dead. Her little bird — a poor slight 
thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed 
— was stirring nimbly in its cage ; and the strong 
heart of its child -mistress was mute and motion- 
less forever. 

Where were the traces of her early cares, her 
sufferings and fatigues? All gone. This was 
the true death before their weeping eyes. Sorrow 
was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect 
happiness were born ; imaged in her tranquil 
beauty and profound repose. 

And still her former self lay there, unaltered 



in this change. Yes. The oFd fireside had 
smiled on that same sweet face ; it had passed 
like a dream through haunts of misery and care; 
at the door of the poor school-master on the 
summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the 
cold, wet night, at the still, dying boy, there 
had been the same mild lovely look. So shall 
we know the angels in their majesty, after death. 

The old man held one languid arm in his, and 
kept the small hand tight folded to his breast for 
warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out 
to him with her last smile — the hand that had led 
him on through all their wanderings. Ever and 
anon he pressed it to his lips, then hugged it to 
his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer 
now I and as he said it, he looked, in agony, to 
those who stood around, as if imploring them to 
help her. 

She was dead and past all help, or need of it. 
The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with 
life, even while her own was ebbing fast—the 
garden she had tended — the eyes she had glad- 
dened — the noiseless haunts of many a thought- 
less hour — the paths she had trodden as if it wei'e 
but yesterday — could know her no more. 

''It is not,*' said the schoolmaster, as he bent 
down to kiss her on her cheek, and give his tears 
free vent — ''it is not in this world that Heaven's 
justice ends. Think what it is compared with 
the world to which her young spirit has winged 
its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish 
expressed in solemn terms above this bed could 
call her back to life, which of us would utter it ! " 

Charles Dickens. 



RETRIBUTION. 



T is not the waters of a mighty river bursting 
its banks and sweeping swiftly and merci- 
lessly over the lowlands ; not the vengeful 
advance of a prairie fire reaching out its thou- 
sands of red tongues for new victims ; not the 
mighty hurricane destroying and devastating, 
is a body of men moving along a highway in 
darkness, more menacing in its silence than 
hurricane in its roaring. Not a voice is 



raised above a whisper ; no face looks backwards. 
On — over the hills — along the levels— -across the 
bridges — tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! They reach 
the outskirts of a town, but there is no halt. Up 
the broad street, turn to the right, turn to the 
left — a thousand people sleeping undisturbed by 
the measured footsteps. 

A sleeping jailer is aroused by a thunderous 
rapping on the heavy door. He opens it and 



196 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



looks out upon a hundred men whose silence — 
whose very attitudes— tell him everything at a 
single glance. Two words are whispered in his 
ear : ** The keys 1 ' ' Duty warns him to resist. 
Prudence cautions him to obey. A score of men 
push past him without a look or a word, and one 
of them holds up a light while the others peer 
through the barred doors. One— two— three — 
they halt at the fourth. The occupant has been 
aroused. With face as white as snow, with eyes 
which speak of the terror in his heart, with every 
nerve suddenly unstrung by the menace, he 
cowers like some conquered wild beast. 
< * Bring out the murderer ! ' ' 
A key iturns in the lock, strong arms pull him 
into the corridor and out into the summer's mid- 
night. He would fight fire or flood ; he would 
brave bullet or knife, but here is a menace more 
terrible. He has no more courage than a child. 
He tries to speak— to beg — to plead, but the 
words choke him. With a grim and speechless 
guardian on either side, with grim and speech- 
less men marching before and behind, he is led 



away. He groans in his agony of mind, but the 

hands grip tighter. He staggers in his weakness, 
but the arms which support him grow more rigid. 
^'Halt!" 

The branches of a tree shut out the sight of 
heaven as the victim looks up. There is reaction 
now. He denies his guilt ; he pleads for his life. 
His voice reaches the ear of every man, but no 
one heeds it. It is hardly a minute before a 
noose is thrown over his head, and swift fingers 
tie his arms and legs. He is still speaking, he 
is desperately hoping that one heart in that crowd 
may be melted, when the leader gives a sign. 
Next instant there is a body swinging from the 
limb— swinging — writhing — twisting — ahorrible 
sight even in the merciful darkness. Scarcely a 
hand is moved as the minutes go by. Not an 
eye is turned away until the horrible pendulum 
hangs still and dead. Then a low command is 
given, and the crowd breaks into fragments, and 
the fragments are swallowed up in the darkness. 
Retribution takes her place at the foot of the 
tree to watch the night out alone. 



THE AGED PRI30NER. 




JGH on to twenty years 

Have I walked up and down this 
dingy cell ! 
I have not seen a bird in all that time 
Nor the sweet eyes of childhood, nor the flowers 
That grow for innocent men,— not for the curst. 
Dear God ! for twenty years. 

''With every gray-white rock 
I am acquainted ; every seam and crack. 
Each chance and change of color ; every stone 
Of this cold floor, where I by walking much 
Have worn unsightly smoothness, that its rough 

Old granite walls resent. 

'* My little blue-eyed babe. 
That I left singing by my cottage door, 
Has grown a woman — is perchance a wife. 
To her the name of * father ' is a dream. 
Though in her arms a nestling babe may rest. 

And on her heart lie soft. 



**0h, this bitter food 
That I must live on ! this poisoned thought 
That judges all my kind, because by men | 

I have been stripped of all that Hfe holds dear— » * 
Wife, honor, reputation, tender child — 

For one brief moment's madness. 

'* If they had killed me then. 
By rope, or rack, or any civil mode 
Of desperate, cruel torture, — so the deed 
Were consummated for the general good — 
But to entomb me in these walls of stone 

For twenty frightful years ! 

''Plucked at my hair — 
Bleached of all color, pale and thin and dead— 
My beard that to such sorry }ength has grown ; 
And could you see my heart, 'tis gray as these- 
All like a stony archway, under which 

Pass funerals of dead hopes. 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



197 



*' To-morrow I go out ! 
Where shall I go ? what friend have I to meet ? 
Whose glance will kindle at my altered voice ? 
The very dog I rescued from his kind 
Would have forgotten me, if he had lived. 

I have no home — no hope ! ' * 



An old man, bent and gray. 
Paused at the threshold of a cottage door. 
A child gazed up at him with, startled eyes. 
He stretched his wasted hands — then drew them 

back 
With bitter groan : ** So like my little one 

Twenty years ago ] ' ' 

A comely, tender face 
Looked from the casement; pitying all God's 

poor, 
"Come in, old man!" she said, wkh. gentle 

smile. 



And then from out the fullness of her heart. 
She called him ' ' Father, ' ' thinking of his age ; 
But he, with one wild cry, 

Fell prostrate at her feet. 
** O child ! " he sobbed, ^' now I can die. WheM 

last 
You called me father — was it yesterday ? 
No 1 no ! your mother lived, — now she is dead I 
And mine was living death — for twenty years— 

For twenty loathsome years ! ' ' 

Her words came falter ingly: 
'*Are you the man — who broke my mother*f 

heart ? 
No ! no ! O father, — speak ! 
Look up — forget ! ' ' Then came a stony calm. 
Some hearts are broken with joy — some break 

with grief, 

The old gray man was dead. 



A LAST LOOK. 



HEARD him, Joe, I heard him— 

I heard the doctor say 
My sight was growing weaker, 

And failing day by day. 
*^ She's going blind," he whispered; 

Yes, darling, it is true ; 
These eyes will soon have taken 

Their last long look at you. 

The room is dull and misty, 

And as I try to gaze 
There seems to fall between us 

A thick and cruel haze. 
I'm going blind, my darhng ; 

Ah ! soon the day must be 
When these poor eyes will open. 

And vainly try to see. 

Oh, take my hand, my husband. 

To lead me to the light. 
And let your dear face linger 

The last thing in my sight— 
rhat 50 I may remember. 



When darkness covers all, 
* Twas there I last saw, softly, 
God's blessed sunshine fall. 

Cheer up, my dear old sweetheart, 

And brush away your tears. 
The look I see to-day, love. 

Will linger through the years. 
For when the veil has fallen. 

To hide you evermore, 
I want your smile to light me 

Along the gloomy shore. 

I yet can see you, darling — 

Some light there lingers still; 
The sun is setting slowly 

Behind the distant hill ; 
Odd fancies crowd about me. 

Now God has let me know 
My eyes must close for ever 

On all things here below. 

Though twenty years have vanished^ 
It seems but yestere'en 



198 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



Since first you wooed and won me 
Among the meadows green ; 

Here from our cottage window 
I once could see the spot 

Where grew the yellow cowslip 
And blue forget-me-not. 

But now a strange mist hovers, 

And though I strain my eyes. 
Beyond my yearning glances 

The dear old meadow lies. 
I want to see it, darling, 

The meadow by the stream, 
Where first your loving whisper 

Fulfilled my girlhood's dream. 

So take my hand and guide mfe. 

And lead me to the air, — ■ 
I want to see the world, love. 

That God has made so fair, 
I want to see the sunset, 

And look upon the sky, 
And bid the sweet, green country 

A loving, last good-bye ! 

How swift the sun is setting ! 

It's almost twilight now ; 
I hear, but cannot see, dear, 

The birds upon the bough. 
Is this our little garden ? 

I cannot pierce the gloom, 
But I can smell the roses — 

They're coming into bloom. 

Stoop down and pluck a rosebud— 

You know my fav'rite tree ; 
My husband's hand will give me 

The last one I shall see. 
Ah, Joe, do you remember 

The dear old happy days — 
Our love among the roses 

In summer's golden blaze? 

I take the rose you gave me 
Its petals damp with dew ; 
I scent its fragrant odor. 



But scarce can see its hue. 
In memory of to-night, Joe, 

When dead I'll keep it still ; 
The rose may fade and wither — 

Our love, dear, never will. 

Quick ! quick ! my footsteps falter; 

Oh, take me in again, 
I cannot bear the air, Joe, 

My poor eyes feel the strain. 
Home, home, and bring my children^ 

And place them at my knee, 
And let me look upon them 

While yet I've time to see. 

Then take them gently from me. 

And let us be alone : 
My last fond look, dear husband. 

Must be for you alone. 
You've been my dear old sweetheart 

Since we were lass and lad : 
I've laughed when you were merry. 

And wept when you were sad. 

I want to see you wearing 

Your old sweet smile to-night, 
I want to take it with me 

To make my darkness light. 
God bless you, Joe, for trying — 

Yes, that's the dear old look I 
I'll think of that sweet story 

When God has closed the book. 

Joe, fetch me down the picture 

That hangs beside our bed. 
Ah, love, do you remember 

The day that he lay dead ! 
Our first-born bonny baby — « 

And how we sat and cried. 
And thought our hearts were broken 

When our sweet darling died ? 

I'd like to see the picture 

Once more, dear, while I may 

Though in my heart it lingers 
As though 'twere yesterday. 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



199 



Ah ! many bairns came after, 
But none were like to him. 

'^ome closer to me, darling. 
The light is growing dim. 

Come closer — so ; and hold me, 

And press your face to mine, 
I'm in a land of shadows. 

Where ne'er a light can shine.j 
But with your arm around me. 

What danger need I fear ? 
I'll never need my eyes, Joe, 

While your strong arm is nean 

Now, be a brave old darling, 
^nd promise not to fret ; 



I saw your face the last, dear, 

And now I've no regret. 
I saw your face the last, dear — - 

God's hand has dealt the blow; 
My sight went out at stmset 

A short half -hour ago. 

Now you must be my eyesight. 

Through all the sunless land, 
And down life's hill we'll wander, 

Like lovers, hand in hand. 
Till God shall lift the curtain 

Beyond these realms of pain ; 
And there, where blind eyes open, 

I'll see your face again. 

George R. Sims. 



THE FADING LEAF. 



a 



w 



E all do fade as a leaf." The sad 
voice whispers through my soul^ and 
a shiver creeps over from the church- 
yard. * * How does a leaf fade ? " It is a deeper, 
richer, stronger voice, with a ring and an echo 
in it, and the shiver levels into peace. I go out 
upon the October hills and question the genii of 
the woods. ' ' How does a leaf fade ? ' ' Grandly, 
magnificently, imperially, so that the glory of 
its coming is eclipsed by the glory of its depart- 
ing j thus the forests make answer to-day. The 
tender bud of April opens its bosom to the woo- 
ing sun. From the soft airs of May and the 
clear sky of June it gathers greenness and 
strength. Through all the summer its manifold 
lips are open to every passing breeze, and great 
draughts of health course through its delicate 
veins and meander down to the sturdy bark, the 
^busy sap, the tiny flower and the maturing fruit, 
bearing life for the present, and treasuring up 
promise for the future. 

Then its work is done, and it goes to its 
burial — not mournfully, not reluctantly, but joy- 
ously, as to a festival. Its grave-clothes wear no 
funereal look. It robes itself in splendor. Solo- 
mon IP all his glory was not arrayed like one of 
these. First there was a flash of crimson in the 



I 



lowlands, then a glimmer of yellow on the hill- 
side, then, rushing on exultant, reckless, rioting 
in color, grove vies with grove till the woods are 
all aflame. Here the sunlight streams through 
the pale gold tresses of the maple, serene and 
spiritual, like the aureole of a saint ; there it 
lingers in bold dalliance with the dusky orange 
of the walnut. 

The fierce heart of the tropics beats in blood- 
red branches that surge against deep, solemn 
walls of cypress and juniper. Yonder a sober, 
but not sombre, russet tones down the flaunting 
vermilion. The intense glow of scarlet struggles 
for supremacy with the quiet sedateness of brown, 
and the numberless tints of year-long green come 
in everywhere to enliven and soothe and subdue 
and harmonize. So the leaf fades — brilliant, 
gorgeous, gay, rejoicing — as the bride adorned 
for her husband, as a king goes to his corona- 
tion. 

But the frosts come whiter and whiter. The 
nights grow longer and longer. Ice glitters in 
the morning light, and clouds shiver with snow. 
The forests lose their flush. The hectic dies 
into sere. The little leaf can no longer breathe 
the strength-giving air, nor feel juicy life stirring 
in its veins. Fainter and fainter grows its hold 



200 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



upon the protecting tree. A strong wind comes 
and loosens its clasp, and bears it tenderly to 
earth. A whirl, an eddy, a rustle, and all is 
over — no, not all j its work is not yet done. It 
sinks upon the protecting earth, and, Antaeus 
like, gathers strength from the touch, and begins 
a new life. It joins hands with myriads of its 
mates, and takes up again its work of benevo- 
lence. 

No longer sensitive itself to frosts and snows, 
it wraps in its warm bosom the frail little 
anemones, and the delicate spring beauties that 
can scarcely bide the rigors of our pitiless win- 
ters, and, nestling close in that fond embrace, 
they sleep securely till the spring sun wakens 
them to the smile of the blue skies and the song 
of dancing brooks. Deeper into the earth go 
the happy leaves, mingling with the moist soil, 
drinking the gentle dews, cradling a thousand 
tender lives in theirs, and springing again in 



new forms — an eternal ^ycle of life and death 
'^forever spent, renewed forever." 

We all do fade as a leaf. Change, thank God, 
is the essence of life. ^'Passing away" is 
written on all things, and passing away is pass- 
ing on from strength to strength, from glory to 
glory. Spring has its growth, summer its fruit- 
age, and autumn its festive in-gathering. The 
spring of eager preparation waxes into the 
summer of noble work ; mellowing, in its turn, 
into the serene autumn, the golden-brcwn haze 
of October, when the soul may rob itself in 
jubilant drapery, awaiting the welcome com- 
mand, ^'Come up higher," where mortality 
shall be swallowed up in life. Let him alone 
fear who does not fade as the leaf — him whose 
spring is gathering no strength, whose summer 
is maturing no .fruit, and whose autumn shall 
have no vintage. 

Gail Hamilton-. 



"LIMPYTIM." 



fi 



BOUT the big post-office door 
Some boys were selling news. 
While others earned their slender store 
By shining people's shoes. 



They were surprised the other day 

By seeing *'Limpy Tim " 
Approach in such a solemn way 

That they all stared at him. 

**Say, boys, I want to sell my kit ; 

Two brushes, blacking-pot 
And good stout box — the whole outfit ; 

A quarter buys the lot." 

*'Goin' away?" cried one. ''O no," 
Tim answered, *' not to-day; 

But I do want a quarter so. 
And I want it right away." 

The kit was sold, the ]Drice was paid, 
When Tim an office sought 



For daily papers ; down he laid 
The money he had brought. 

''I guess, if you'll lend me a pen, 
I'll write myself," he sighed; 

With slowly moving fingers then 
He wrote this notice, *'died — 

Of scai'let fever — Litiil Ted — 
Aged three — go7t up to heven — 

One brother left to mourn him dead — 
Funeral to-morrow — eleven. * ' 

^' Was it your brother ? ' ' asked the man 

Who took the notice in ; 
Tim tried to hide it, but began 

To quiver at the chin. 

The more he sought himself to brace 
The stronger grew his grief ; 

Big tears came rolling down his face, 
To give his heart relief. 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



201 



*'By selHng out — my kit — I found — 
That quarter — ' ' he repHed ; 

*'B — but he had his arms around 
My neck — when he d — died." 

Tim hurried home, but soon the news 
Among the boys was spread ; 

They held short, quiet interviews 
Which Straight to action led. 

He had been home an hour, not more, 

When one with naked feet 
Laid down Tim's kit outside his door, 

With flowers white and sweet. 



Each little fellow took a part, 

His penny freely gave 
To soothe the burdened brother's heart, 

And deck the baby's grave. 

Those flowers have faded since that day, 

The boys are growing men, 
But the good God will yet repay 

The deed he witnessed then. 

The light which blessed poor ^'Limpy Tim ' 

Decended from above — 
A ladder leading back to Him 

Whose Christian name is love. 

T. Harley. 



THE DYING BOY. 



/^ FRIEND of mine, seeking for objects of 
^ charity, reached the upper room of a 
tenement house. It was vacant. He 
saw a ladder pushed through a hole in the ceil- 
ing. Thinking that perhaps some poor creature 
had crept up there, he climbed the ladder, drew 
himself through the hole, and found himself 
under the rafters. There was no light but that 
which came through a bull's eye in the place of 
a tile. Soon he saw a heap of chips and shav- 
ings, and on them lay a boy about ten years old. 

*^Boy, what are you doing here? " 

*'Hush, don't tell anybody, please, sir." 

*'What are you doing here?" 

*'Hush, please don't tell anybody, sir; I'm 
a-hiding. ' ' 

' ' What are you hiding for ? " 

'^ Don't tell anybody, please, sir.'* 

''Where's your mother? " 

"Please, sir, mother's dead." 

''Where's your father?" 

"Hush, don't tell him. But look here." 
He turned himself on his face, and through the 
rags of his jacket and shirt my friend saw that 
the boy's flesh was terribly bruised, and his skin 
was broken. 

"Why, my boy, who beat you like that? " 

"Father did, sir." 

" What did he beat you for? " 



"Father got drunk, sir, and beat me 'cos I 
wouldn't steal." 

' ' Did you ever steal ? ' ' 

"Yes, sir; I was a street-thief once." 

"And why won't you steal anymore? " 

"Please, sir, I went to the mission school, and 
they told me there of God and of heaven, and 
of Jesus, and they taught mc, 'Thou .shalt not 
steal,' and I'll never steal again, if my father 
kills me for it. But please don't tell him." 

"My boy, you mustn't stay here. You'll 
die. Now you wait patiently here for a little 
time. I'm going away to see a lady. We will 
get a better place for you than this." 

"Thank you, sir; but please, sir, would you 
like to hear me sing my little hymn ? ' ' 

Bruised, battered, forlorn, friendless, mother- 
less, hiding from an infuriated father, he had a 
little hymn to sing. 

"Yes, I will hear you sing your little hymn." 

He raised himself on his elbow and then sang : 



" Geutle Jesus, meek and mild, 
I,ook upon a little child, 
Pity my simplicity, 
Suffer me to come to thee. 



*' Fain would I to thee be brought 
Gracious I^ord, forbid it not : 
In the kingdom of tHy grace, 
Give a little child a place." 



202 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



*' That's the little hymn, sir. Good-bye." 
The gentleman hurried away for restoratives 
and help, came back again in less than two 
hours, and climbed the ladder. There were the 
chips, there were the shavings, and there was the 
little motherless boy with one hand by his side 
and the other tucked in his bosom — dead. Oh, 
I thank God that he who said, *' Suffer little chil- 



dren to come unto me," did not say *' respec- 
table children," or '* well-educated children." 
No, he sends his angels into the homes of pov- 
erty and sin and crime, where you do not like 
to go, and brings out his redeemed ones, and 
they are as stars in the crown of rejoicing to 
those who have been instrumental in enlighten- / 
ing their darkness. JOHN B. GoUGH. 



CHARITY'S MEAL. 



f^\ RICH man sat by his chamber window, 
L-^ Viewing the skies, where the clouds hung 

/ low; 

'Twas a darksome day in raw December, 
And the air was filled with the falling snow. 

feut he was rich in worldly treasure. 
And none of the outside cold did feel ; 

Fortune had blest him with heaping measure, 
And he knew not the chill of a charity meal. 

A wayfaring man in rags and tatters. 
Weary and hungry, sick and sore — 

Clothes all covered with muddy spatters, 
Came knocking at the rich man's door. 

A plate of cold potatoes was given, 

(The snow on the window panes congeal). 

But, oh, there is nothing 'twixt earth and heaven. 
So cold to the heart as a charity meal. 

Ask the winds why poor men wander, 
Ask the storm why the wild geese fly ; 

Or, why does the slave on liberty ponder, 
Or the weary wish for the sweet by and by. 

We must take this world just as we find it. 
And not judge it by what we think it should be ; 

Nor lay all the blame on the powers behind it — 
Most of the blame lays on you, sir, and me. 

Slowly the old man munched his dinner. 

For his molars had long since gone to decay. 

He may have been a hardened old sinner. 
But what was that to charity, pray ? 



Cold were the looks which the rich man gave him, 
Cold were the thoughts in his heart of steel ; 

But, colder than all for the tramp, God save him. 
Were the cold potatoes of charity's meal. 

There he sat eating and silently weeping, 

For the Old man's spirit was broken, I knowj 
And sad were the thoughts in his shattered mind 
creeping- 
Thoughts of the night in the wind and the 
snow. 

To lay by the fire all night was denied him, 
(Some human hearts no compassion • can feel,) • 

But, with words cold and stern, the rich man did 
chide him. 
And sent him adrift with that charity meal. 

Down the bleak road he watched the tramp 
going, 
Then turned from the window with a yawn of 
content ; 
Forgetting the tramp and the winter winds 
blowing. 
For vagabonds seemed but a common event. 

That night sleeping soundly on his soft yield- 
ing pillow. 
The rich man dreamed of his childhood day ; 
And visions came to him on memory's billow. 
And again with his brother in the old home 
did play. 

Again they were swimming in the old mill 
basin. 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



203 



And thw air was scented from the red clover 
field; 
And again in the water the brothers were racing 
Almost tired out, but neither would yield. 

The miller came out on seeing their danger, 
For both of the swimmers were nearing the 
wheel, 
And he shouted to them to go back, in anger, 
Or a blow from his pole on their heads they 
would feel. 
And now both the boys are alive to their danger. 
For the current is drawing them into the 
flume ; 
And the miller, in fright, forgets all h's anger. 
And plunged in to save the bad boys from 
their doom. 

'^Take Edward out first, for he is the lightest !" 
The one brother shouted while panting for 
breath. 
And then, great God ! that loved face, the 
whitest 
Went under the wheel, and, they thought to 
sure death. 

They found him below with legs and arms 
broken. 
And long weary months was he gaining his 
health, 
*'And where is he now?" said the rich man 
awaking ; 



*'To see him again I would give half my 
wealth. ' ' 

Next morning the earth was all covered with 
whiteness, 
For all the night long came the snow tumb- 
ling down ; 
But now the sunbeams were glimmering ii; 
brightness. 
And the rich man felt happy as he rode to- 
wards town. 

But what are these men doing here by the 

bushes ? 

Lifting some object from off the cold ground. 

''What is it? who is it?" be asks, as he rushes 

Up to the spot where the dead tramp was 

found. 

''Some poor tramp," one said. "We found 
him here lying 

As dead as a door nail — as stiff as a log. 
It must have been hard to be all alone — dying, 

Dying alone, like some poor homeless dog. ' ' 

The rich man knelt down, and helped by an- 
other. 
They opened his coat and his old ragged vest. 
"Oh God!" he shouted, "My brother! my 
brother ! 
Oh, heaven forgive me — see the scar on his 
breast!" 



DEATH OF LITTLE JO. 



TO is very glad to see his old friend ; and 
^^l says, when they are left alone, that he 
V^y takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby 
should come so far out of his way on accounts 
of sich as him. Mr. Sangsby, touched by the 
spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the 
table half-a-crown, that magic balsam of his for 
all kinds of wounds. 

"And how do you find yourself, my poor 
lad ? " inquires the stationer, with his cough of 
sympathy. 

"I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns 



Jo, "and don't want for nothink. I'm more 
cumf'bler nor you can't think, Mr. Sangsby. 
I'm wcrry sorry that I done it, but I didn't go 
fur to do it, sir," 

The stationer softly lays down another half- 
crown, and asks him what it is that he is sorry for 
having done. 

"Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a 
illness to the lady as was and yet as war'nt the 
t'other lady, and none of em never says nothink 
to me for having done it, on accounts of their 
being so good and my having been 'o unfertnet. 



204 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



The lady come herself and see me yes' day, and 
she ses, 'Ah Jo!' she ses. 'We thought we'd 
lost you, Jo!' she ses. And she sits down 
a smilin' so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit 
a look upon me for having done it, she don't, 
and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. 
And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to turn 
away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he 
come fur to give me somethink fur to ease me, 
wot he's alius a doin' on day and night, and 
'A^en he come a bendin' over me and speakin up 
so bold, I see his tears a fallin', Mr. Sangsby." 

The softened stationer deposits another half- 
crown on the table. Nothing less than a repeti- 
tion of that infallible remedy will relieve his 
feelings. 

''Wot I wos thinkin' on, Mr, Sangsby," pro- 
ceeds Jo, wos, as you wos able to write wery 
large, p'raps?" 

"Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer. 

"Uncommon precious large, p'raps?" says 
Jo, with eagerness. 

"Yes, my poor boy." 

Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I was thinkin' 
on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that when I wos 
moved on as fur as ever I could go, and couldn't 
be moved no furder, w^hethcr you might be so 
good, p'raps, as to write out, wery large, so that 
anyone could see it anywheres, as that I wos 
wery truly hearty sorry that I done it, and 
that I never went fur to do it ; and that 
though I didn't know nothink at all, I 
know'd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it, and 
wos alius grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd 
be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin' 
could be made to say it wery large he might." 

"It shall say it, Jo; very large." 
I Jo laughs again. "Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. 
It's very kind of you, sir, and it makes me 
more cumf 'bier nor I wos afore." 

The meek little stationer, with a broken and 
unfunished cough, slips down his fourth half 
crown, — he has never been so close to a case re- 
quiring so many, — and is fain to depart. And 
Jo and he, upon this little earth, shall meet no 
more. No more. 



(^Ajiother Scene. — Enter Mr. IVooJcourL') 

"Well, Jo, what is the ma'.ter? Don't be 
frightened." 

"I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is 
looking round, "I thought I was in Tom-all- 
Alone's agin. An't there nobody here but you, 
Mr. Woodcot?" 

"Nobody." 

"And I an't took back to Tom-all-Alone's, 
am I, sir ? " 

"No." 

Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I am wery 
thankful." 

After watching him closely a little while, 
Allan puts his mouth very near his ear, and says 
to him in a low, distinct voice: "Jo, did you 
ever know a prayer? ' ' 

' ' Never knowd nothink, sir. ' ' 

"Not so much as one short prayer?" 

"No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr., (inadbands 
he wos a prayin' wunst at Mr. Sangsby' s and I 
heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a 
speakin' to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a 
lot, but / couldn't, make out nothink on it. 
Different times there wos other gen T men <:ome 
down Tom-all-Alone's a prayin', but they all 
mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, 
and all mostly sounded to be a talkin' to their- 
selves, or a passin' blame on the t' others, and 
not a talkin' to us. We never knowd nothink. 
/never knowd what it wos all about." 

It takes him a long time to say this ; and few 
but an experienced and attentive listener could 
hear, or hearing, understand him. After a short 
relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a 
sudden, a strong effort to get out of bed. 

" Stay, Jo, stay ! What now ? ' ' 

" It's time for me to go to that there berryin* 
ground, sir, ' ' he returns with a wild look. 

"Lie down, and tell me. What burying 
ground, Jo ? " 

"Where they laid him as m'os wery good to 
me ; wery good to me indeed, he wos. It's time 
for me to go down to that there berryin' ground, 
sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants 
to go there and be berried. He used fur to say 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



205 



to me, 'I am as poor as you, to-day, Jo,' he ses. 
I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him, 
now, and have come there to be laid along with 
him." 

'* By-and-by, Jo ; by-and-by. ' ' 

''Ah ! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to 
go myself. But will you promise to have me 
took there, sir, and laid along with him ? ' ' 

"I will, indeed." 

''Thankee, sir ! Thankee, sir ! They'll have 
to get the key of the gate afore they can take me 
in, for it's alius locked. And there's a step 
there, as I used fur to clean with my broom. — 
It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a 
comin' ? ' ' 

"It is coming fast, Jo." 

Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, end 
the rugged road is very near its end. 

"Jo, my poor fellow ! " 

"I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a 



gropin' — a gropin' — let me catch hold of your 
hand." 

"Jo, can you say what I say ? " 

"I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows 
it's good." 

"Our Father." 

"Our Father! — yes, that's wery good, sir." 

"Which art in Heaven." 

"Art in Heaven ! — Is the light a comin, ' sir?" 

"It is close at hand. Hallowed be thv 
Name." 

' ' Hallowed be — thy — name ! ' ' 

The light is come upon the dark benighted 
way. Dead. 

Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and 
gentlemen. Dead, Right Reverends and Wrong 
Reverends of every order. Dead, men and 
women, born with heavenly compassion in your 
hearts. And dying thus around us every day. 

Charles Dickens. 



THE SINGER'S CLIMAX. 



a 



F you want to hear 'Annie Laurie ' sung 
' come to my house to-night, ' ' said a man 
to his friend. "We have a love-lorn 
fellow in the village who was sadly wrecked by 
the refusal of a young girl to whom he had been 
paying attention for a year or more. It is 
seldom he will attempt the song, but when he 
does I tell you he draws tears from eyes unused 
to weeping. ' ' 

A small select party had assembled in a pleas- 
ant parlor, and were gayly chatting and laughing 
when a tall young man entered whose peculiar 
face and air instantly arrested attention. He 
was very pale, with that clear, vivid complexion 

^ which dark-haired consumptives so often have ; 

jhis locks were as black as jet, and hung pro- 
fusely upon a square white collar ; his eyes were 
very large and spiritual, and his brow was such 
a one as a poet should have. But for a certain 
wandering look, a casual observer would have 
pronounced him a man of uncommon intellect- 
ual powers. The words "poor fellow," and 
"how sad he looks" went the rounds, as he 



came forward, bowed to the company, and took 
his seat. One or two thoughtless girls laughed 
as they whispered that he was ' ' love-cracked, ' ' 
but the rest of the company treated him with 
respectful deference. 

It was late in the evening when singing was 
proposed, and to ask him to sing "Annie 
Laurie ' ' was a task of uncommon delicacy. 
One song after another was sung, and at last 
that one was named. At its mention the young 
man grew deadly pale, but he did not speak ; he 
seemed instantly to be lost in reverie. 

"The name of the girl who treated him so 
badly was Annie," said a lady, whispering to 
the new guest, " but oh ! I wish he would sing 
it ; nobody else can do it justice." 

' ' No one dares to sing 'Annie Laurie ' before 
you Charles," said an elderly lady. " Would iti 
be too much for me to ask you to favor the^ 
company with it ? " she added, timidly. 

He did not reply for a moment ; his lip quiv- 
ered, and then looking up as if he saw a spiritual 
presence, he began. Every soul was hushed, — 



206 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



it seemed as if his voice were the voice of an 
angel. The tones vibrated through nerve and 
pulse and heart, and made one shiver with the 
pathos of his feeling ; never was heard melody 
in a human voice like that — so plaintive, so 
soulful, so tender and earnest. 

He sat with his head thrown back, his 
eyes half closed, the locks of dark hair glisten- 
ing against his pale temple, his fine throat 
swelling with the rich tones, his hands lightly 
folded before him, and as he sung 

"And 'twas there that Annie lyaurie 
Gave me her promise true," 

it seemed as if he shook from head to foot with 
emotion. Many a lip trembled, and there was 
no jesting, no laughing, but instead, tears in 
more than one eye. 

And on he sung and on, holding every one 
in rapt attention, till he came to the last 
verse : 



" I^ike dew on the gowan lying- * 

Is the fa' of her fairy feet, 
And like winds in summer sighing 

Her voice is low and sweet, 

Her voice is low and sweet, 
And she's a' the world to me — '• 

He paused before he added, 

"And forbonnie Annie I,aurie 
I'll lay me down and die," 

There was a long and solemn pause. The 
black locks seemed to grow blacker — the white 
temples whiter — almost imperceptibly the head 
kept falling back — the eyes were close shut. 
One glanced at another— all seemed awe-struck 
■ — till the same person who had urged him to 
sing laid her hand gently on his shoulder, 
saying : 

'' Charles! Charles! " 

Then came a hush — a thrill of horror crept 
through every frame — the poor, tried heart had 
ceased to beat. Charles, the love -betrayed, was 
dead. 



"GOOD=NIGHT, PAPA." 



^H£ words of a blue-eyed child as she kissed 
her chubby hand and looked down the 
stairs, ^'Good-night, papa; Jessie see 
you in the morning." 

It came to be a settled thing, and every even- 
ing, as the mother slipped the white night-gown 
over the plump shoulders, the little one stopped 
on the stairs and sang out, '' Good-night, papa," 
and as the father heard the silvery accents of the 
child, he came, and taking the cherub in his 
arms, kissed her tenderly, while the mother's 
eyes filled, and a swift prayer went up, for, 
strange to say, this man who loved his child with 
all the warmth of his great noble nature, had 
^:^Q fault to mar his manliness. From his youth 
he loved the wine-cup. Genial in spirit, and 
with a fascination of manner that won him 
friends, he could not resist when surrounded by 
his boon companions. Thus his home was 
darkened, the heart of his wife bruised and 
bleeding, the future of his child shadowed. 

Three years had the winsome prattle of the 
baby crept into the avenues of the father's 



heart, keeping him closer to his home, but still 
the fatal cup was in his hand. Alas for frail 
humanity, insensible to the calls of love ! With 
unutterable tenderness God s?w there was no 
other way ; this father was dear to him, the pur- 
chase of his Son; he could net see him perish, 
and, calling a swift messenger, he said, ''Speed 
thee to earth and bring the babe. ' ' 

"Good-night, papa," sounded trom the stairs. 
What was there in the voice r was it the echo of 
the mandate, "Bring me th. ^abe? " — a silvery 
plaintive sound, a lingering music that touched 
the father's heart, as when a cloud crosses the 
sun. " Good-night, my darling ; " but his lips 
quivered and his broad brow grew pale. 'Ts 
Jessie sick, mother? Her cheeks are flushed, 
and her eyes have a strange light. ' ' 

"Not sick," and the mother stooped to kiss 
the flushed brow; "she may have played too 
much. Pet is not sick? " 

"Jessie tired, mamma; good-night, papa; 
Jessie see you in the morning." 

"That is all, she is only tired," said the 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



207 



mother as she took the small hand. Another 
kiss and the father turned away ; but his heart 
was not satisfied. 

Sweet lullabies were sung ; but Jessie was 
restless and could not sleep. '' Tell me a story, 
mamma ; ' ' and the mother told of the blessed 
babe that Mary cradled, following along the 
story till the child had grown to walk and play. 
The blue, wide open eyes filled with a strange 
light, as though she saw and comprehended 
more than the mother knew. 

That night the father did not visit the saloon ; 
tossing on his bed, starting from a feverish sleep 
and bending over the crib, the long weary hours 
passed. Morning revealed the truth — Jessie was 
smitten with a fever. 

**Keep her quiet," the doctor said; '^a, few 
days of good nursing, and she will be all right." 

Words easy said ; but the father saw a look on 
the sweet face such as he had seen before. He 
knew the message was at the door. 

Night came. ** Jessie is sick ; can't say good- 
night, papa ; ' ' and the little clasping fingers 
clung to the father's hand. 

'*0 God, spare her ! I cannot, cannot bear 
it ! " was wrung from his suffering heart. 

Days passed ; the mother was tireless in her 



watching. With her babe cradled in her arms 
her heart was slow to take in the truth, doing 
her best to solace the father's heart : ' 'A light 
case ! the doctor says, ' Pet will soon be well. ' ' ' 

Calmly as one who knows his doom, the father 
laid his hand upon the hot brow, looked into the 
eyes even then covered with the film of death, 
and with all the strength of his manhood cried, 
''Spare her, O God ! spare my child, and I will 
follow thee. ' ' 

With a last painful effort the parched lips 
opened: ''Jessie's too sick; can't say good- 
night, papa — in the morning." There was a 
convulsive shudder, and the clasping fingers 
relaxed their hold ; the messenger had taken the 
child. 

Months have passed. Jessie's crib stands hy 
the side of her father's couch; her blue em* 
broidered dress and white hat hang in his closet ; 
her boots with the print of the feet just as she 
last wore them, as sacred in his eyes as they are 
in the mother's. Not dead, but merely risen to 
a higher Hfe ; while, sounding down from the 
upper stairs, ' ' Good-night, papa, Jessie see you 
in the morning, ' ' has been the means of winning 
to a better way one who had shown hinw«df deaf 
to every former call. 



SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE? 



W 



HEN we hear the music ringing 
In the bright celestial dome — 
When sweet angels' voices singing. 
Gladly bid us welcome home 
To the land of ancient story, 

Where the spirit knows no care 
In that land of life and glory — 
Shall we know each other there ? 

When the holy angels meet us. 

As we go to join their band. 
Shall we know the friends that greet as 

In that glorious spirit land ? 
Shall we see the same eyes shining 

On us as in days of yore ? 
Shall we feel the dear arms twining 

Fondly round us as before ? 



Yes, my earth-worn soul rejoices, 

And my weary heart grows light. 
For the thrilHng angels' voices 

And the angel faces bright. 
That shall welcome us in heaven. 

Are the loved ones long ago ; 
And to them 'tis kindly given 

Thus their mortal friends to know. 

Oh ye weary, sad, and tossed ones. 

Droop not, faint not by the way ! 
Ye shall join the loved and just ones 

In that land of perfect day. 
Harp-strings, touched by angel fingers, 

Murmur in my rapturous ear ; — 
Evermore their sweet song lingers — 

*' We s/ia// know each other there.*' 



< 



208 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



TOMMY'S DEATH BED. 



UT hush ! the voice from the Httle bed, 

And the watchful mother bent her head. 
*' Mammy, I know that I'm soon to die 
And I want to wish them all good-bye. 

*'I shouldn't like any here to say, 
'He didn't shake hands when he went away ; 
He was glad to be off to his harp and wings 
And couldn't remember his poor old things.' 

*' In heaven I never should feel content 
If I hadn't been kind before I went ; 
So let me take leave of them, great and small, 
Animals, people and toys and all. " 

So the word went forth, and in no great while 
The servants entered in solemn file — 
The stout old cook, and the housemaid. Rose, 
And the aproned boy, with his smutted nose. 

So each of the women, with streaming cheek. 
Bent over and kissed him and could not speak ; 
x^ut he said that they must not grieve and cry. 
For they'd meet again in the happy sky. 

'Twas longer and harder to deal with Jim— 
The child grew grave as he looked at him. 
For he thought to himself, *'He bets and swears. 
And I hardly believe that he says his prayers. 

" Oh, Jim, dear Jim, if you do such things 
You' 11 never be dressed in a harp and wings. ' ' 
He talked to the boy as a father should. 
And begged him hard to be grave and good. 

The lad lounged out with a brazen air 
And whistled derisively down the stair. 
But they found him hid in the hole for coal, 
Sobbing and praying in grief of soul. 

Old ' ' Rover ' ' came next, sedate and good. 
And gazed at his master and understood; 
Then up we carried, in order due, 
-'Maria," the cat, and her kittens two. 



Proud purred the mother, and arched her back. 
And vaunted her kittens, one white, one black ;, 
And the sweet white kitten was good and still. 
But the black one played with his nightgown's 
frill. 

He stroked them all with his poor weak hand, 
But he felt they could not understand. 
He smiled, however, and was not vext, 
And bade us bring him the rabbit next. 

He welcomed ''Punch" with a loving smile, 
And hugged him close in his arms awhile ; 
And we knew (for the dear child's eyes grew 

dim) 
How grievous it was to part with him. 

His mother he bade, with tearful cheek. 
Give ' ' Punch ' ' his carrot three days a week, 
With lettuce-leaves on a cautious i^lan. 
And only just moisten his daily bran. 

Then next we brought to him, one by one. 
His drum ^nd^iis trumpet, his sword and gun ; 
And we lifted up for his fondling hand 
His good gray steed on the rocking-stand. 

Then close to his feet we placed a tray, 
And we set his armies in array ; 
And his eyes were bright with fire and dew 
As we propped him up for his last review. 

His ark came next, and pair by pair. 
Passed beasts of the earth and fowk of the air / 
He kissed good Japheth, and Ham, and Shem, 
And waved his hands to the rest of them. 

But we saw that his eyes had lost their fire. 
And his dear little voice began to tire ; 
He lay quite still for a little while, 
With eyes half-closed and a peaceful smile. 

Then "Mammy," he said, and never stirred, 
And his mother bent for the whispered word ; 
" Give him his carrot each second day," 
Our Tommy murmured, and passed away. 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



209 



LOST AND FOUND. 



OME miners were sinking a shaft in Wales — • 
(I know not where, — but the facts have 
filled 
A chink in my brain, Avhile other tales 

Have been swept away, as when pearls are spilled, 

One pearl rolls into a chink in the floor;) 

— Somewhere, then, where God's light is killed. 

And men tear in the dark, at the earth's heart- 
core. 

These men were at work, when their axes 
knocked 

A hole in a passage closed years before. 

A slip in the earth, I suppose, had blocked 
This gallery suddenly up, with a heap 
Of rubble, as safe as a chest is locked. 

Till these men picked it ; and 'gan to creep 
In on all-fours. Then a loud shout ran 
Round the black roof — '' Here's a man asleep ! ' 

They all pushed forward, and scarce a span 
From the mouth of the passage, in sooth, the 

lamp 
Fell on the upturned face of a man. 

No taint of death, no decaying damp 

Had touched that fair young brow, whereon 

Courage had set its glorious stamp. 

Calm as a monarch upon his throne. 
Lips hard clenched, no shadow of fear, 
He sat there taking his rest, alone. 

He must have been there for many a year. 
The spirit had fled ; but there was its shrine. 
In clothes of a century old or near ! 

The dry and embalming air of the mine 
Had arrested the natural hand of decay. 
Nor faded the flesh, nor dimm'd a line. 

Who was he, then ? No man could say 
When the passage had suddenly fallen in — 
Its memory, even, was past away ! 
14 



In their great rough arms, begrimed with coal. 

They took him up, as a tender lass 

Will carry a babe, from that darksome hole. 

To the outer world of the short warm grass. 
Then up spoke one, ''Let us send for Bess, 
She is seventy-nine, come Martinmass ; 

Older than any one here, I guess ! 

Belike, she may mind when the wall fell there, 

And remember the chap by his comeliness. ' ' 

So they brought old Bess with her silver hair. 
To the side of the hill, where the dead man lay 
Ere the flesh had crumbled in outer air. 

And the crowd around him all gave way, 
As with tottering steps old Bess drew nigh. 
And bent o'er the face of the unchanged clay,, 

Then suddenly rang a sharp low cry ! 
Bess sank on her knees, and wildly tossed 
Her withered arms in the summer sky. 

'«0 Willie! Willie! my lad ! my lost ! 
The Lord be praised ! after sixty years 
I see you again ! The tears you cost, 

O Willie darlin', were bitter tears ! 
They never looked for ye underground, 
They told me a tale to mock my fears ! 

They said ye were auver the sea — ye'd found 
A lass ye loved better nor me, to expkiin 
How ye'd a-vanished fra sight and sound ! 

darlin', a long, long life o' pain 

1 ha' lived since then ! And now I*m old, 
'Seems a' most as if youth were come back again 

Seeing ye there wi' your locks. o' gold. 
And limbs as straight as ashen beams, 
I a' most forget how the years ha' rolled 



210 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



Between us ! O Willie ! how strange it seems 
To see ye here as I see ye oft, 
Auver and auver again in dreams ! ' ' 

In broken words like these, with soft 
Low wrils she rocked herself. And none 
Of the rough men around her scoffed. 

For surely a sight like this, the sun 
Had rarely looked upon. Face to face, 
The old dead love, and the living one ! 

The dead, with its undimmed freshly grace, 
At the end of threescore years ; the quick. 
Puckered, and withered, without a trace 

Of its warm girl-beauty ! A wizard's trick 
Bringing the youth and the love that were. 
Back to the eyes of the old and sick ! 



Those bodies were just of one age ; yet there 
Death, clad in youth, had been standing still. 
While life had been fretting itself threadbare ! 

But the moment was come ; (as a moment will 
To all who have loved, and have parted here. 
And have toiled alone up the thorny hill j 

When, at the top, as their eyes see clear, 

Over the mists in the vale below. 

Mere specks their trials and toils appear, 

Beside the eternal rest they know ! ) 

Death came to old Bess that night, and gave 

The welcome summons that she should go. 

And now, though the rains and winds may rave. 
Nothing can part them. Deep and wide, 
The miners that evening dug one grave. 

And there, while the summers and winters glide. 
Old Bess and young Willie sleep side by side ! 

Hamilton Aide 



THE LAST OF THE CHOIR. 



HERE was a gathermg a short time ago at 
a neat house m an Ohio village, of about 
a hundred people. The mistress of the 
house was in the parlor, and one by one they 
went to her side, but she did not speak or lift 
her hands. They were toil-worn hands, that for 
forty years had done daily work for the children, 
but she wore a. new dress now, and the work was 
ended. 

Thirty-five years ago, when the church choir 
met for practice, she played the melodeon, while 
they sang *'Ware," and ^^Shirland," and 
" Dundee." But the choir was gone, save two 
ladies who stood near her holding an old sing- 
ing-book. There was a piano near, but it was 
closed. 

A minister, younger than the book they held, 
Vead how ''Man is born unto trouble, as the 
sparks fly upward, ' ' and closing, looked at the 
two ladies. Many a time since the treble was 
fifteen and the alto thirteen they had sung for 
their silent friends. The treble breathed a low 



note, that only the alto heard; and then the 
listeners heard an old melody, with the words : 

•' There is a land mine eye hath seen 
In visions of enraptured thought, 
So bright that all which spreads between 
Is with its radiant glory fraught." 

Out in the rooms beyond, all was so still that 
every one could hear the voices as they sang the 
assurance that — 

*' The wanderer there a home may find 
Within the paradise of God." 

The voice of prayer rose for comfort and 
endurance, a pleading voice in behalf of the 
household, and again he looked toward the two 
with the old book. They held it open, but they 
were not looking at it ; they did not appear 
to think of it. They were reviewing the years 
in the moment when they lifted up their voices 
in the words : 

" If through unruflfled seas 
Toward heaven we calmly sail' 
With grateful Hearts,—'* 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS 



211 



strong their faith ! 



'•— O God, to thee 
We'll own the favoring- gale 1 " 

The audience, thinking only of the needs of 
their hearts, noticed not the useless book. 

" But should the surges rise," 

They sang faintly now, for the surges had been 
over them. The alto bent over a dying husband, 
and had buried him in a distant city. Like a 
bolt from a clear sky came the death of her manly 
boy one evening when he had just left her side. 

Waves of trouble had come upon the treble ; 
fair young children had been taken from her 
embrace, — sons and daughters had been swept 
away. 

The voices faded away, but gained again with 
the line : 

"And rest delay to come," 

Rest ! Their hearts were aching and tired. 
A young lady near the door feared they might 
break down; buf her neighbor, who was old, 



could have told her the old cnoir were never 
known to break down. Ah, no! The voices 
are full of hope again as they sing : 

" Blest be the sorrow, kind the storm. 
That drives us nearer home." 

Home ! The voices, blended by long prac- 
tice, lingered till they died in faint harmony, at 
last, on the word. 

In the evening the two singers sat by the open 
fire. Again, as in childhood, they lived on the 
same street. 

'* We did not need a book to-day," said the 
alto. ''It would be impossible to forget the 
songs we learned when we were young. ' ' 

''Do you know," responded the treble, ''that 
as we sing those pieces I hear the voices of those 
who used to be in the choir with us ? Some- 
times I hear the tenor voice of the leader, then 
the voice of the bass who used to make us laugl^ 
so when we ought not ; then the voice of the 
girl who sang with me, and then I hear all of 
them, and see their faces. They are all young. 
We only are old ; but we shall soon rejoin ^.he 
choir. ' ' 



5AIRY JACKSON'S BABY. 



^ BIT of crape, hanging side by side with a 
t-J strip of satin ribbon which had once been 
J white, but was now discolored by constant 

use, swung idly from the tack which held it in 
place at the entrance to one of the tall tenements 
on the west side. It is in the district known as 
Blackchapel, and all the houses thereabout are 
occupied by colored folks. 

There is always a pathos about a scrap of crape 
at the doop, especially if the grim announcement 
is hung for a child. But the lean legged and 
woolly headed black children who were playing 
shinny in the street were coo young to allow 
•Iieir sport to be interrupted by the presence of 
ieath. 

If any one had asked the stout negress who 
oiled at the door, they would have been answered 
nth : '' Oneley Mis' Sarah Jackson's little boy. 



An' it's de Lawd's bressin' he gone, kase he's 
bin ailin' ebber sence he was bawn. Whar does 
she lib? Up on de top flo', in de reah. Yo' 
cawn't miss it. Jess knock hard on de do', kase 
Miss Jackson maybe sorrowin' like, on 'count ov 
it bein' her Johnnie." 

And then, if one had followed her direction, 
he would have wondered if there never would be 
any end to the bare, steep flights of dirty stairs, 
with the too brief landings, and the musty, dark 
halls, and the black, woolly heads thrust out of 
half open doors in a spirit of youthful inquiry 

But there is an end co all things, and at last 
the top is reached. It is lighter here, and the 
air seems a little more wholesome, although the 
same musty smell of crowded quarters is to be 
noticed. A ladder leads up to a hole in the 
roof, and the 'jun sends a slanting ray dowp 



212 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



\hrough the aperture. The block of sunlight 
strikes the entrance to one of the three doors on 
the landing, and has only the effect of bringing 
out in greater relief the worn pine boards half 
hidden by an accumulation of dirt. 

It is very quiet on this floor, so quiet that 
when the visitor listened he could hear a sound 
of sobbing, and then a low voice crooning words 
of comfort. A 'knock at the door brings the 
c^nswer : ** Come in." The room is not more 
than twelve feet square, and is considered a large 
room for a tenement. But the question of ac- 
commodations is not taken into consideration 
now. 

There are two persons in the room. An old 
woman, whose tears made shining tracks upon 
her black skin, was bending over a young woman 
who rocked to and fro in an old chair, sobbing 
and moaning for her baby. The room was un- 
carpeted and miserable. Bags and wads of paper 
stuck loosely in the holes in the broken window 
panes helped to give an indescribable aspect of 
desolation to the room. 

Upon the only table in the room, its atten- 
uated form wrapped in an red shawl, ragged and 
threadbare, was the dead baby. Its little black 
face, tinged with a grayish hue, was turned up 
toward the cracked ceiling, and the lids hardly 
concealed the dull white of the eyes. 

The babe had been dead since the day before, 
and the mother was too poor to bury it. Her 
husband was away somewhere. He had deserted 
her months before, so she need not expect him in 
her hour of trouble. 

As she rocked the door creaked on its hinge 
and an old negro entered. He was lame, and 
made his way carefully along with a cane. A 
high hat that had seen years of hard service 
rested .on a fringe of grayish wool which covered 
the back of his head, and a bandanna handker- 
chief made a picturesque substitute for both 
collar and cravat. 

*' Hullo, Jack, yo' back agen?" said the old 
/voman. ^'Sairy's bin taken on powerf '1 sence 
yo's bin gone, an' she mos' cried her eyes out. 
Did yo, git enny money ? ' ' 



**No, an* I'se done clean pestered out, 
a-trampin' and a-trampin'. What wid de rheu- 
matics and de sorror 'bout Jacky, I ain't 
mahself. ' ' 

** Uncle Jack," said the young woman, 
jumping up, *^I'll jes' ask yer ter go to one 
moah place fur de money. Jes' one moah. 
I'se done washin' fur dis lady, and mebbe she 
help me." 

''Come, come, gal," said the old man; ''I'se 
doin' all I can fer yer, but the good Lawd will 
pervide. Jes put yo' trus' on him." 

' ' I know, Uncle Jack, I know dat ; but we 
mus' do somethin'," she said. 

With unsteady hand she wrote a note in a 
cramped hand on the back of a grocery bill, the 
only piece of 'paper there was in the house. The 
paper was blistered with her tears. 

Mrs. Reed — Would you please to help me a 
little, I am sorry to ask you, but my Baby died 
yesterday at noon, with the Brown-keeters and 
the guatar in the throat. We have done what 
we could. I have been sick myself and the little 
earning i had saved i had to pay out for medcin. 
I am not feeling well. 

From Sarah Jackson. 

Uncle Jack hobbled out of the door and down 
the stairs. He had to go a long distance, and 
when he came back a gentleman came with him. 
He had come in answer to the letter and to see 
the dead baby was buried decently. Not long 
ago his own baby had died, and when he stood 
by the table and saw by the light of the one 
lamp in the room the face of the little dead baby 
he broke down and wept. His tears mingled 
with those of the poor black folks about. A 
common grief had torn away the barrier of race, 
color and station, and he was as sincere a 
mourner as old Uncle Jack, who stood with 
bowed head near him. And as the old bandanna 
neckerchief seemed to grow tighter and tighter 
around his throat he said : 

"I knew de Lawd would pervide, Sairy, I 
knew it, chile, kase he allers does. ' ' 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



213 



LITTLE DOT. 

[The touching incident that gave rise to the following lines occurred in one of our large cities. Crouched upon the curb 
stone in a blinding snowstorm there was a little match-girl apparently not more than six years old. Attracted by her sobs, an 
old gentleman approached her, and kindly asked, " Who are you, my little girl, that you are here in this storm ? " Raising h -^i 
large brown eyes, brimming with tears, she sobbed, " Oh, I'm only little Dot ! "] 



©ROUGHING on the icy pavement, 
Sobbing, shivering with the cold, 
Garments scant around her clinging 
All her matches yet unsold ; 
Visions of a cheerless garret, 

Cruel blows not soon forgot. 
While through choking sobs the murmur 
^'Oh, I'm only little Dot!" 

Deeper than the icy crystals. 

Though their keenness made her start ,; 
Is the hungry, aching longing 

In the litttle match -girl's heart. 



No kind voice to 'cheer and comfort ; 

Ah ! by fortune quite forgot. 
Who can wonder at the murmur, 

'*0h, I'm only little Dot ! " 

Far above the clouds and snowstorms, 

Where the streets have pearly gates, 
In that home a sainted mother. 

For the little match-girl waits. 
By the throng of waiting angels. 

Little one you're ne'er forgot. 
In the home of many mansions 

There is room for little Dot. 



SISTER AND 




E were hunting for wintergreen berries. 

One May-day, long gone by^ 
Out on the rocky cliff's edge. 
Little sister and I. 
Sister had hair like the sunbeams ; 

Black as a crow's wing, mine j 
Sister had blue, dove's eyes ; 

Wicked, black eyes are mine. 
Why, see how my eyes are faded — 
And my hair, it is white as snow ! 
And thin, too ! don't you see it is? 
I tear it sometimes ; so ! 

There, don't hold my hands, Maggie, 

I don't feel like tearing it now ; 
■?ut — where was I in my story ? 

Oh, I was telling you how 
/e were looking for wintergreen berries ; 

'Twas one bright morning in May, 
And the moss-grown rocks were slippery 

With the rains of yesterday. 
But I was cross that morning, 

Though the sun shone ever so bright — 
And when sister found the most berries, 

I was angry enough to fight ! 



And when she laughed at my pouting — 

We were little things, you know — 
I clinched my little fist up tight. 

And struck her the biggest blow ! 
I struck her — I tell you — I struck her, 

And she fell right over below — 
There, there, Maggie, I won't rave now; 

You needn't hold me so — 
She went right over, I tell you, 

Down, down to the depths below I 
'Tis deep and dark and horrid 

There, where the waters flow [ 




She fell right over, moaning 

* * Bessie, oh, Bessie 1 " so sad. 
That, when I looked down affrighted. 

It drove me mad — mat// 
Only her golden hair streaming 

Out on the rippling wave. 
Only her little hand reaching 

Up, for some one to save ; 
And she sank down in the darkness, 

I never saw her again. 
And this world is a chaos of blackness 

And darkness and grief since then. 



214 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



No more playing together 

Down on the pebbly strand ; 
Nor building our doll's stone castles 

With halls and parlors grand ; 
No more fishing with bent pins, 

In the little brook's clear waves; 
No more holding funerals 

O'er dead canaries graves ; 
No more walking together 

To the log school -house each morn ; 
No more vexing the master 

With putting his rules to scorn ; 

No more feeding of white lambs 

With milk from the foaming pail ; 
No more playing ' ' see saw ' ' 

Over the fence of rail ; 
No more telling of stories 

After we've gone to bed; 
Nor talking of ghosts and goblins 

Till we fairly shiver with dread ; 
No more. whispering fearfully 

And hugging each other tight, 
When the shutters shake and the dogs howl 

In the middle of the night ; 

No more saying ^*Our Father," 
Kneeling by mother's knee — 
For, Maggie, I struck sister ! 
And mother is dead, you see. 
^I^e, sister's an angel, 
'^he? Isn't it true? 

Is have golden tresses 
eyes like sister's blue? 
?^w my hair isn't golden, 

My eyes aren't blue, you see-— 
Now tell me, Maggie, if I were to die. 
Could they make an angel of me? 

You say, ''Oh, yes;" you think so? 

Well, then, when I come to die, 
We'll play up there, in God's garden — 

We'll play there, sister and I. 
Now, Maggie, you needn't eye me, 

Because I'm talking so queer; 
Because I'm talking so strangely; 

Yott n©«du't have the least fear. 




Somehow I'm feeling to-night, Maggie, 

As I never felt before — 
I'm sure, I'm sure of it, Maggie, 

I never shall rave any more. 

Maggie, you know how these long years 

I've heard her calling, so sad, 
"Bessie, oh, Bessie! " so mournful? 

It always drives me mad ! 
How the winter wind shrieks down the 

chimney, 
*' Bessie, oh, Bessie, oh! oh!" 

How the south wind wails at the casement, 
' ' Bessie, oh, Bessie ! " so low. 

But most of all when the May-days 
Come back, with the flowers and the sun, 

How the night-bird, singing, all lonely, 
''Bessie, oh, Bessie!" doth moan; 

You know how it sets me raving — 

For she moaned, ' ' Oh, Bessie / ' ' just so. 
That time I struck little sister. 

On the May-day long ago ! 
Now, Maggie, I've something to tell you-^ 

You know May-day is here — 
Well, this very morning, at sunrise. 

The robins chirped ' ' Bessie ! " so clears- 
All day long the wee birds, singing. 

Perched on the garden wall. 
Called ' ' Bessie, oh, Bessie ! " so sweetly, 

I couldn't feel sorry at all. 

Now, Maggie, I've something to tell you — 

Let me lean up to you close — 
Do you see how the sunset has flooded 

The heavens with yellow and rose ? 
Do you see o'er gilded cloud mountains 

Sister's golden hair streaming out? 
Do you see her little hand beckoning? 

Do you hear her little voice calling out 
"Bessie, oh, Bessie! " so gladly, 
" Bessie, oh, Bessie ! Come, haste?" 

Yes, sister, I'm coming; I'm comia 
To play in God's garden at last 1 



y 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



215 



GUALBERTO'S VICTORY. 



/^ MOUNTAIN pass so narrow that a man 
Lj^ Riding that way to Florence, stooping, 
J can 

Touch with his hand the rocks on either side, 
And pluck the flowers that in the crannies hide. 
Here, on Good Friday, centuries ago. 
Mounted and armed, John Gualberto met his foe ; 
Mounted and armed as well, but riding down 
To the fair city from the woodland brown. 
This way and that, swinging his jeweled whip, 
A gay old love-song on his careless lip. 
And on his charger's neck the reins loose thrown. 

An accidental meeting ; but the sun 
Burned on their brows, as if it had been one 
Of deep design, so deadly was the look - 
Of mutual hate their olive faces took ; 
As (knightly courtesy forgot in wrath,) 
Neither would yield his enemy the path. 
**Back I " cried Gualberto. ''Never ! " yelled 

his foe ; 
And on the instant, sword in hand, they throw 
Them from their saddles, nothing loath, 
And fall to fighting, with a smothered oath. 

A pair of shapely, stalwart cavaliers. 
Well-matched in stature, weapons, weight, and 

years. 
Theirs was a long, fierce struggle on the grass, 
Thrusting and parrying up and down the pass ; 
Swaying from left to right, in combat nched, 
Till all the housings of their steeds were 

drenched 
With brutal gore : and ugly blood-drops oozed 
Upon the rocks, from head and hands contused. 
But at the close, when Gualberto stopped to rest. 
His heel was planted on his foeman's breast ; 
And looking up, the fallen courtier sees, 
As in a dream, gray rocks and waving trees 
Before his glazing vision faintly float. 
While Gualberto' s sabre glitters at his throat. 



'•Now die, base wretch! 
cries, 



the victor fiercely 
His heart of hate outflashing from his eyes : 



"Never again, by the all-righteous Lord ! 
Shalt thou with life, escape this trusty sword,-— 
Revenge is sweet ! ' ' And upward glanced the 

steel. 
But ere it fell, — dear Lord ! a silvery peal 
Of voices chanting in the town below, 
Grave, ghostly voices chanting far below, 
Rose, like a fountain's spray from spires of snow. 
And chimed and chimed to die in echoes slow. 

In the sweet silence following the sound, 
Gualberto and the man upon the ground 
Glared at each other with bewildered eyes 
(The glare of hunted deer on leashed hound); 
And then the vanquished, struggling to arise, 
Made one last effort, while his face grew dark 
With pleading agony : ' ' Gualberto ! hark ! . 
The chant — the hour — thou know'st the olden 

fashion, — 
The monks below intone our Lord-'s dear Passion. 
Oh ! by this cross ! ' ' — and here he caught the 

hilt 
Of Gualberto 's sword, — "and by the Blood once 

spilt 
Upon it for us both long years ago. 
Forgive — forget — and spare a fallen foe ! ** 

The face that bent above grew white and set, 
(Christ or the demon ! — in the balance hung); 
The lips were drawn, — the brow bedewed with 

sweat, — 
But on the grass the harmless sword was flung : 
And stooping down, the hero, generous, wrung 
The outstretched hand. Then, lest he lose con- 
trol 
Of the but half-tamed passions of his soul. 
Fled up the pathway, tearing casque and coat 
To case the tempest throbbing at his throat ; 
Fled up the crags, as if a fiend pursued. 
And paused not till he reached a chapel rude. 

There, in the cool dim stillness, on his knees, 
Trembling, he flings himself, and startled, sees 
Set in the rock a crucifix antique, 



216 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



From which the wounded Christ bends down to 
speak. 
*' Thou hast done well^ Gualberto. For My 
sake 
Thou didst forgive thine enemy ; now take 
My gracious pardon for thy times of sitz, 
^ndfrom this day a better life begins 

White flashed the angels' wings above his head, 



Rare, subtle perfumes through the place were 

shed; 
And golden harps and sweetest voices poured 
Their glorious hosannas to the Lord, 
AVho in that hour, and in that chapel quaint. 
Changed by His power, by His dear love's 

constraint, 
Gualberto the sinner into John the saint. 

Eleanor C. Donnelly. 



^1 

1 



GRANDMA'S WEDDINQ-DAY. 



W 



'HEN we were merry children, eyes of 
blue and hair of gold, 
We listened to a story by a sweet- 
faced lady told; 
Yes, in the twilight of her life, when she was 

old and gray. 
We loved to hear the story of Grandma's 
wedding-day. 

There was a lack of bridal gifts, — -no gold and 

silver fine, 
No jewels from across the sea, upon her brow to 

shine ; 
A man in homespun clothes stood up and gave 

the bride away— 
For all was sweet simplicity on Grandma's 

wedding-day. 

There was no surpliced minister, no bell above 

them hung. 
They stood upon the forest sward, this couple, 

fair and young ; 
And when the parson called them one and wished 

them years of bliss. 
The groom received his only gift,— a soft and 

holy kiss. 

A cabin in the forest stood to welcome home 

the pair, 
And happy birds among the trees made music 

on the air ; 
She was the reigning backwoods belle — the 

bride so fair and gay — 
And that is why the birds were glad upon her 

wedding-day. 



Thus life began for Grandma, in the forest dim 

and old, 
And where she lived a city stands, with stateli- 

ness untold ; 
She told us how the Indian came the settler 

brave to fight. 
And how she rocked the cradle to the wolf's 

long howl at night. 

The cradle was an oaken trough, untrimmed with 

costly lace. 
But in it nestled, now and then, a bright, cherubic 

face; 
And Grandma was as happy then as though a 

mansion grand 
Above her rose like some we see throughout our 

lovely land. 

I cherish now a lock of hair, — 'tis not of silver 

gray. 
She clipped it in the sunlight fair, though years 

have passed away, — 
It is a tress of Grandma's hair, as bright as when 

she stood, 
And blushing took her bridal vows within the 

pathless wood. 

On yonder hill, this golden morn, she takes her 

dreamless rest ; 
The wrinkled hands, so often ^kissed, lie crossed 

upon her breast ; 
And gently on her finger, ere we laid her fornv 

away. 
We placed the simple ring shG wore upon her 

wedding-day. 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



217 



IN THE BOTTOM DRAWER. 



^^ \vife pull out the bottom drawer of the 
old family bureau this evening, and went 
softly out, and wandered up and down, 
until I knew that she had shut it up and gone to 
her sewing. We have some things laid away in 
tnat drawer which the gold of kings could not 
buy, and yet they are relics which grieve us until 
both our hearts are sore. I haven't dared look 
at them for a year, but I remember each article. 

There are two worn shoes, a little chip-hat 
with part of the brim gone, some stockings, 
pants, a coat, two or three spools, bits of broken 
crockery, a whip, and several toys. Wife — • 
poor thing — goes to that drawer every day of her 
life, and prays over it, and lets her tears fall 
upon the precious articles ; but I dare not go. 

Sometim.es we speak of little Jack, but not 
often. It has been a long time, but somehow we 
can't get over grieving. He was such a burst of 
sunshine into our lives that his going away has 
been like covering our every-day existence with 
a pall. Sometimes, when we sit alone of an 
evenings I writing and she sewing, a child on 
the street will call out as our boy used to, and 
we will both start up with beating hearts and 



a wild hope, only to find the darkness more of a 
burden than ever. 

It is so still and quiet now. I look up at the 
window where his blue eyes used to sparkle at 
my coming, but he is not there. I listen foi his 
pattering feet, his merry shout, and his ringing 
laugh ; but there is no sound. There is no one 
to climb over my knees, no one to search my 
pockets and tease for presents : and I never find 
the chairs turned over, the broom down, or 
ropes tied to the door-knobs. 

I want some one to tease me for my knife ; to 
ride on my shoulder ; to lose my axe ; to follow 
me to the gate when I go, and be there to meet 
me when I come; to call ''good-night" from 
the little bed, now empty. And wife, she misses 
him still more : there are no little feet to wash, 
no prayers to say ; no voice teasing for lumps of 
sugar, or sobbing with the pain of a hurt toe ; 
and she would give her own life, almost, to 
awake at midnight, and look across to the crib 
and see our boy there as he used to be. 

So we preserve our relics ; and when we are 
dead we hope that strangers will handle them 
tenderly, even if they shed no tears over them. 



SENTENCE OF DEATH ON THE HIGH 5EAS. 



^ 



BOARD o' the good ship Margaret Ann," 

Nigh twenty-five year ago, 
I sailed from here to fair Cadiz town, 
While the wintry winds did blow. 

A stiffer gale never swept the sea^ 
Than we had the fourth week out — 

An' pretty well pickled I've been in brine, 
An' pretty well blowed about— 

But this wind, my hearties, blowed great guns. 
Tore the mainmast off the deck ; 

'Twas a mercy, mates, as the stout old ship 
Warn't sent to the bottom a wreck ! 

Hows' ever, we swum, but hard times we had 
Afore that we reached the port ^ 



For we'd^been at sea three weeks too long, 
An' provisions was running short. 

But once on the shore, and safe from harm 

In the sunny land of Spain, 
Little we cared for the dangers past — 

We was ready to brave 'em again ! 

But there, I'm a-veerin' away from my yarn--* 
'Bout ship — don't lose the right tack — 

For 'twasn't in Spain as it happ'd, my lads, 
But when we was coming back. 

Sailed with us a lass from old Cadiz town, 

In charge o' the second mate ; 
And in less than a week the mate and the lass 

Was lovers, as sure as fate. 



218 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



A finer yOung fellow ne'er stepped a plank, 
Every man aboard was his friend ; 

A prettier wench ne'er loved a tar, 
Ar»d — but wait till you hear the end. 

We'd hired some sailors while we was in port, 

Among 'em a Creole chap. 
As might ha' been good for summat on land, 

But at sea warn't worth a rap ! 

He kept as much out o' sight as he could 
Till a thousand miles from the coast ; 

Then, one day, he meets her face to face. 
An' she turns as white as a ghost. 

His eyes blazed up, and he muttered low 

In his lingo, fierce and fast ; 
But she turned and ran right straight to her love. 

And her arms about him cast. 

An' she told him slow, in her broken tongue. 
How this Creole sought her hand ; 

But she wouldn't have had him — no, no, not 
she — 
For all the riches of the land ! 

An' she, trembling, told how he swore revenge- 
How he said that he'd have her life ; 

But the mate took her face in his big broad 
hands. 
An', laughing, cried, " Hush, little wife ! 

*' If the swab comes anear thee, my pretty dear, 
I'll just break him across my knee ; 

And these arms, so gentle with you, my love. 
Shall toss him slap into the sea I ' ' 

And the sneaky Creole, he slunk away 
A.S the mate shook his brawny fist ; 

But his eye had a devilish glare as he went,' 
And some furious words he hissed ! 

Slow an' sure sailed the Margaret Ann— - 

The Creole his distance kept ; 
The mate never thought of the lubber at all, 

And the lassie's terrors slept. 



One moonlight night, 'bout the end of May, 

On deck the two lovers sat ; 
And she laughed till she cried, as his hair she 
pulled. 

Or his sunburnt cheeks she'd pat ! 

At last both her teasing hands he caught, 

An' held 'em — the bail a kiss — 
A leap ! a gleam ! with a quick, fierce blow ! 

And a yell, half shriek, half hiss ! 

And the Creole's sharp knife his blood has drunk, 

On the deck he falls in death ; 
And the curs' d blade's sheathed in as manly a 
breast. 

As ever did draw life's breath. 

Afore he could stir half a step from the spot 

I grappled his coward throat ; 
An' if some o' the crew hadn't dragged me away, 

I'd a strangled him like to a stoat. 

He was ironed and tumbled below like a dog ; 

Poor Philip we sorrowful raised ; 
And his dear *^ little wife " was led gently away. 

Heart-broken and pretty near crazed. 

It's strange, lads, whenever grim death comes 
aboard. 

The sharks somehow soon find it out ; 
Anyway, the next day a big hammer-head shark 

Off our quarter was floating about. 

At noon the bell tolled, the crew mustered on 
deck. 

The slayer and slain was both there ; 
The captain comes aft, an' no dry eye looked on 

While he read out the funeral prayer. 

The Creole scowled yet on the dead, and fierce 
hate 
Seemed his glistening eyes to distend ; 
He laughed as he glared on that low-stricken' 
form. 
And — but wait, till you hear the end ! 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



219 



The captain 

shark, 
And some thought come into his head. 
For his eye ht up with a terrible Hght, 
And his white brow flushed all red ! 



.c cBen caught a glimpse of the And he crawled on the deck to the captain's feet, 

With pitiful cry and groan ; 
But he knelt in vain, for the captain's face 
Was hard and fixed as stone. 



And full on the Creole he turned his gaze-^ 

It made me shiver to look ; 
For I read an awful doom on his face. 

As plain as if writ in a book. 

"Bo'sun," said he, '^ bring a rope," and 'twas 
brought ; 

The murderer laughed to see, 
And bared his neck, as if for to say : 

Hang quick ! if so must be. 

But his laughing stopped, and his lace grew wild, 
When they led him towards the dead; 

For he guessed his dreadful fate — he to'^ 
Had seen that hammer-head ! 



And back to back, limb fast to limb, 
Was the dead and the living tied ; 

And never a man aboard o' the ship 
For mercy upon him cried. 

His wild death-shriek ; I can hear it now- 

Can yet see his look of woe. 
As over the vessel's side they cast 

The victim and his foe. 

A heavy splash — a body swift 
Darts forward through the sea ! 

A rending cry — from death like that 
The Lord deliver me ! 



SAVE THE OTHER MAN. 



'HE storm had spent its rage : The sea 

Still moaned with sullen roar^ 
And flung its surges wrathfully 
Against the shelving shore ; 
And wide and far 
With plank and spar 
The beach was splintered o'er. 

A league from land a wreck was seen. 

Above whose wave-washed hull. 
Fast-wedged the jutting rocks between, 
Circled a snow-white gull. 

Whose shrieking cry 
Rose clear and high 
Above the tempest's lull. 

** Hoy ! — To the rescue ! — Launch the boat ! 

I see a drifting speck : 
Some struggler may be still afloat, — 
Some sailor on the deck : 

Quick ! ply the oar, — 
Put from the shore. 
And board the foundered wreck ! " 



Right through the churning plunge of spray, 

Whirled like an ocean shell, 
The hardy life -boat warped its way, 
As billows rose and fell ; 
And boldly cast 
Its grapnel fast 
Above the reefy swell. 

Around the bows the breakers sobbed 

With low, defiant moan ; 
When instant, every bosom throbbed. 
Held by one sound alone ; 

Somewhere — somewhere — 
Upon the air 
There thrilled a human groan. 

One moment — and they clomb the wreck. 

And there, a ghastly form 
Lay huddled on the heaving deck. 
With living breath still warm,^ — ' 
Too dead to hear 
The shout of cheer 
That mocked the dying storm. 



220 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



But as they lowered him from the ship 

With kindly care as can 
Befit rough hands, across his lip 
A whispered ripple ran : 

They stooped and heard 
The slow-drawn word 
Breathed,— •* ' Save — the — other — man / ' 



Oh ! ye who once on gulfing w*^€« 

Of sin were tempest-tossed, — 
Ye who are safe through Him who saves 
At such transcendent cost, — 
Will ye who yet 
Can rericue, let 
The other man be lost ? 

Margaret J. Preston, 



THE OLD CLOCK AGAINST THE W/^IL. 



©H, the old, old clock of the household 
stock, 
Was the brightest thing, and neatest; 
Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold. 

And its chime rang still the sweetest ; 
'Twas a monitor too, though its words were few, 

Yet they lived though nations altered ; 
And its voice, still strong, warned old and young. 

When the voice of friendship faltered : 
''Tick ! tick ! " it said — '' quick, quick to bed, 

For ten I've given warning ; 
Up ! up ! and go, or else you know. 
You'll never rise soon in the morning ! " 

A friendly voice was that old, old clock. 

As it stood in the corner smiling. 
And blessed the time with a merry chime. 

The wmtry hours beguiling ; 
But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock, 

As it called at day -break boldly j 



When the dawvi looktd gray o'er the misty vay, 

And the early air blew coldly : 
*' Tick ! UcX ! " it said, '' quick out of bed, 

For five I've given warning ; 
You'll never have health, you'll never have 
wealth. 

Unless you're up soon in the morning ! " 

Still hourly the sound goes round and round, 

With a tone that ceases never ; 
While tears are shed for bright days fled, 

And the old friends lost forever ; 
Its heart beats on — though hearts are gone, 
Its hands still move — though hands we love 

Are clasped on earth no longer ! 
''Tick! tick!" it said — "to the church-yard 
bed. 

The grave hath given warning : 
Up ! up ! and rise, and look at the skies. 

And prepare for a heavenly morning ! ' ' 



GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY. 



HE stood at the bar of justice, 

A creature wan and wild, 
In form too small for a woman. 
In features too old for a child, 
For a look so worn and pathetic 

Was stamped on her pale young face 
It seemed long years of suffering 
Must have left that silent trace. 

" Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her 

With kindly look yet keen, 
"Is Mary McGuire, if you please sir,'-' 

"And your age ? ' ' — " I am turned fifteen. ' * 



"Well, Mary," and then from a paper 

He slowly and gravely read, 
" You are charged here — I'm sorry to say it- 

With stealing three loaves of bread. 

" You look not like an offender, 

And I hope that you can show 
The charge to be false. Now, tell mCi 

Are you guilty of this, or no ? " 
A passionate burst of weeping 

Was at first her sole reply, 
But she dried her eyes in a moment. 

And looked in the judge's eye. 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



221 



will tell yoM just how it was sir, 

My father and mother are dead, 
And my httle brother and sisters 

Were hungry and asked me for bread. 
At first I earned it for them 

By working hard all day, 
But somehow times were bad, sir. 

And the work all fell away. 

** I could get no more employment ; 

The weather was bitter cold. 
The young ones cried and shivered — 

'(Little Johnny's but four years old ;) 
So, what was I to do, sir? 

I am guilty, but do not condemn, 
I took — oh, was it stealing? 

The bread to give to them." 

Every man in the court -room — 

Gray-beard and thoughtless youth — 

Knew, as he looked upon her. 
That the prisoner spoke the truth, 



Out from their pockets came kerchiefs, 
Out from their eyes sprung tears. 

And out from old faded wallets 
Treasures hoarded for years. 

The judge's face was a study — 

The strangest you ever saw, 
As he cleared his throat and murmured 

Something about the law. 
For one so learned in such matters. 

So wise in dealing with men. 
He seemed, on a simple question. 

Sorely puzzled just then. 

But no one blamed him or wondered. 

When at last these words they heard : 
** The sentence of this young prisoner 

Is, for the present, deferred. ' ' 
And no one blamed him or wondered 

When he went to her and smiled, 
And tenderly led from the court-room. 

Himself, the ** guilty" child. 



ONLY A CURL. 



T^TRIENDS of faces unknown, and a land 

r^ Unvisited over the sea, 

\ Who tell me how lonely you stand 
With a single gold curl in the hand, 
Held up to be looked at by me, — 

While you ask me to ponder, and say 

What a father and mother can do 
With the bright fellow-locks put away, 
Out of reach, beyond kiss, in the clay, 
Where the violets press nearer than you, — 

\ Shall I speak like a poet, or run 

Into weak woman's tears for relief? 
Oh, children — I never lost one ; 
Yet my arm's round my own little son. 

And ^ove knows the secret of grief. 

■* 

And I feel what it must be and is, 

When God draws a new angel so. 
Through the house of a man up to His^, 
What a murmur of music you miss, 
And a rapture of light you forego : 



How you think, staring on at the door 
Where the face of your angel flashed in. 

That its brightness, familiar before. 

Burns off from you ever the more 
For the dark of your sorrow and sin. 

*'God lent him and takes him," you sigh. 

Nay, there let me break with your pain : 
God's generous in giving, say I, 
And the thing which he gives, I deny 

That he ever can take back again. 

He gives what he gives : I appeal 

To all who bear babes ; in the hour 
When the veil of the body we feel 
Rent around us — while torments reveal 
The motherhood's advent in power. 

And the babe cries — has each of us knowr\ 

By apocalypse — God being there 
Full in nature — the child is our own. 
Life of life, love of love, moan of moan. 
Through all changes, all times, everywhere^ 



222 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



He's ours, and forever. Believe, 

O father ! — O n:iother, look back 
To the first love's assurance ! To give 
Means, with God, not to tempt or deceive. 
With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack. 

He gives what he gives. Be content ! 

He resumes nothing given — be sure ! 
God lend ? Where the usurers lent 
In his temple, indignant he went, 

And scourged away all those impure. 

He lends not, but gives to the end, 
As he loves to the end. If it seem 

That he draws back a gift, comprehend 
'Tis to add to it, rather, amend, 

And finish it up to your dream,- — 



Or keep as a mother may, toys 

Too costly, though given by herself, 
Till the room shall be stiller from noise. 
And the children more fit for such joys, 
Kept over their heads on the shelf. 

So look up friends ! you who indeed 

Have possessed in your house a sweet piece 
Of the heaven which men strive for, must need 
Be more earnest than others are — speed 
When they loiter, persist where they cease. 

You know how one angel smiles there, — 

Then, courage. ' Tis easy for you 
To be drawn by a single gold hair 
Of that curl, from earth's storm and despair 
To the safe place above us. Adieu.- 

E. B. Browning. 



WHAT IS THAT TO THEE. 



w 



HEN I am called to die. 

To yield my spirit to His sacred keep- 
ing, 
To rest my body in the long, long sleeping, 

I fain would not belie 
My trust in Him who doeth all things well. 
Whose will alone my every wish should quell. 

I would not vainly choose 
What road shall lead me up the holy mountain. 
What path conduct me to the crystal fountain ; 

Nor willing be to lose 
The guidance of the hand that e'er has led 
In ways I knew not, but with mercies spread. 

If gentle be the call. 
If faint and feeble be the distant warning. 
Like dimmest daystreak of the early morning. 

Tipping the pine trees tall. 
And brighter growing, till the red east shines 
With fullest glory on the glowing pines. 

How grateful should I feel ! 
That I might still behold my loved ones longer^ 
Might tarry till my timid faith grew stronger^ 



Might linger to reveal 
The loves that buoyant life can ne'er unveil, 
I '^e odors evening only can exhale. 

If sudden be the stroke. 
If all imheralded His solemn coming, — 
Like flash, fast followed by the thunder's boom- 
ing, 

That scales the skyward oak. 
While pale with fear we hold our bated breath, 
In awe of the swift messenger of death, — 

How blest the favored lot ! 
A lot to few departing spirits given — 
Painless to pass from earth and sin to heaven. 

Oh ! surely it were not 
Departure we should dread, at once to rise 
On whirlwind pinions to the opening skies. 

So I repose my trust ; 
And whether speedy messenger obeying. 
Or waiting patiently my Lord's delaying 

To summon me to rest, 
On his dear love my willing trust would dwell ; 
He knoweth best ; He doeth all things well. 
Thomas D. James. 




PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



ON THE OTHER TRAIN. 



22B 



I 



HERE Simmons, you blockhead ! Why 
didn't you trot that old woman 
aboard her train ? She'll have to wait 
here now until 1.05 A. M." 

"You didn't tell me." 

"Yes, I did tell you. 'Twas only your con- 
founded stupid carelessness." 

^^She! you fool ! What else could you expect 
of her ? Probably she hasn't any wit ; besides, 
she isn't bound on a very jolly journey — got a 
pass up the road to the poor-house. I'll go and 
tell her, and if you forget her to-night, see if I 
don' t make mince-meat of you ! ' ' And our 
worthy ticket agent shook his fist menacingly at 
his subordinate. 

** You've missed your train, marm, " he re- 
marked, coming forward to a queer looking 
bundle in the corner. 

A trembling hand raised a faded black veil 
and revealed the sweetest old face I ever saw. 

" Never mind," said a quivering voice. 

*''Tis only three o'clock now, you'll have to 
wait until the night train, which doesn't go u~ 
until 1.05." 

'*Very well, sir, I can wait ." 

*' Wouldn't you like to go to some hotel? 
Simmons will show you the way. ' ' 

"No, thank you, sir. One place is as good as 
another to me. Besides, I haven't any money." 

"Very well," said the agent, turning away 
indifferently. " Simmons will tell you when it's 
time." 

All the afternoon she sat there so quiet that I 
thought sometimes she must be asleep, but 
when I looked more closely I could see every 
once in a while a great tear rolling down her 
cheek, which she would wipe away hastily with 
her cotton handkerchief. 

The depot was crowded, and all was bustle 
and hurry until the 9.50 train going east came 
due ; then every passenger left except the old 
lady. It is very rare, indeed, that any one takes 
the night express, and almost always after I have 
struck ten, the depot becomes silent and empty. 



The ticket agent put on his great coat, and 
bidding Simmons keep his wits about him for 
once in his life, departed for home. 

But he had no sooner gone than that func- 
tionary stretched himself out on the table, as 
usual, and began to snore vociferously. Then 
it was that I witnessed such a sight as I never 
had before and never expect to again. The fire 
had gone down — it was a cold night, and the 
wind howled dismally outside. The lamps grew 
dim and flared, casting weird shadows upon the 
wall. By and by I heard a smothered sob from 
the corner, then another. I looked in that 
direction. She had risen from her seat, and oh ! 
the look of agony on the poor, pinched face ! 

"I can't believe it," she sobbed, wringing 
her thin, white hands. "Oh! I can't believe 
it ! My babies ! my babies ! how often have I 
held them in my arms and kissed them; and 
how often they used to say back to me, *Ise 
love you mamma,' and now, oh God, they're 
against me. Where am I going? To the poor- 
Viouse / No ! no ! no ! I cannot ! I will not ! 
Oh, the disgrace ! ' ' and sinking upon her knees 
she sobbed out in prayer: "O, God, spare me 
this disgrace- -spare me ! " ,- 

The wind rose higher and swept through the 
crevices, icy cold. How it moaned and seemed 
to sob like something human that is hurt ! I 
began to shake, but the kneeling figure never 
stirred. The thin shawl had dropped from her 
shoulders unheeded, Simmons turned over and 
drew his heavy blanket more closely about him. 

Oh, how cold! Only one lamp remained 
burning dimly; the other two had gone out for 
want of oil. I could hardly see it was so dark. 

At last she became quieter and ceased to moan. 
Then I grew drowsy, and kind of lost the run of 
things after I had struck twelve, when some one 
entered the depot with a bright light. I started 
up. It was the brightest light I ever saw, and 
seemed to fill the room full of glory. I could 
see 'twas a man. He walked to the kneeling 
figure and touched her upon the shoulder. She 



224 



PATHETIC RECITATIONS. 



started up and turned her face wildly around. 
I heard him say: 

"'Tis train time, ma'am. Come! " 

''I'm ready," she whispered. 

*'Then give me your pass, ma'am." 

She reached him a worn old book, which he 
took and from it read aloud; ''Come unto me 
all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will 
give you rest." 

"That's the pass over our road, ma'am. Are 
you ready?" 

The light died away and darkness fell in its 
place. My hand touched the stroke of one. 
Simmons awoke with a start and snatched his 
lantern. The whistle shouted down brakes; 
the train was due. He ran to the corner and 
shook the old woman. 

' ' Wake up, marm ; ' tis train time. ' ' 



But she never heeded. He gave one look at 
the white, set face, and, dropping the lantern, 
fled. 

The up-train halted, the conductor shouted, 
' 'All aboard, ' ' but no one made a move that way. 

The next morning, when the ticket agent 
came, he found her frozen to death. They 
whispered among themselves, and the coroner 
made out the verdict * ' apoplexy, ' ' and it was 
in some way hushed up. 

They laid her out in the depot, and advertised 
for her friends, but no one came. So, after the 
second day, they buried her. 

The last look on the sweet old face, lit up with 
a smile so unearthly, I keep with me yet; and 
when I think of the strange occurrence of that 
night, I know she went out on the other train^ 
that never stopped at the poor-house. 



HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 



fOOR lone Hannah, 
Sitting at the window binding shoes. 
Faded, wrinkled. 
Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse. 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she. 
When the bloom was on the tree ;-— 
Spring and winter, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Not a neighbor 
Passing, nod or answer will refuse 

To her whisper, 
" Is there from the fishers any news? " 
Oh, her heart's adrift with one 
On an endless voyage gone ; 
Night and morning, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Fair young Hannah, 
Ben the sunburnt fisher, gaily woos ; 

Hale and clever, 
For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May-day skies are all aglow. 
And the waves are laughing so ! 
For her wedding 
Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 



May is passing ; 
'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos; 

Hannah shudders, 
For the mild south-wester mischief brews. 
Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound a schooner sped ; 
Silent, lonesome, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

^ Tis November : 
Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews, 

From Newfoundland 
Not a sail returning will she lose, 
Whispering hoarsely : ' ' Fishermen, 
Have you, have you heard of Ben ? '' 
Old with watching, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Twenty winters 
Bleak and drear the ragged shore she vicws^ 

Twenty seasons ! 
Never one has brought her any news. 
Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sails o'er the sea ; 
Hopeless, faithful 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Lucy Larcom, 



Humorous recitations. 



WHAl THE LITTLE GIRL SAID. 



i(S^ 




|A'S up-stairs changing her dress," 
said the freckle-faced little girl, 
tying her doll's bonnet strings and 
casting her eye about for a tidy large enough to 
serve as a shawl for that double -jointed young 
person. 

*'Oh, your mother needn't dress up for me," 
replied the female agent of the missionary 
society, taking a self-satisfied view of herself in 
tne mirror. ' ' Run up and tell her to come down 
just as she is in her every-day clothes, and net 
stand on ceremony." 

^*0h, but she hasn't got on her every-day 
clothes. Ma was all dressed up in her new 
brown silk dress, 'cause she expected Miss Dim- 
mond to-day. Miss Dimmond always comes 
over here to show off her nice things, and ma 
doesn't mean to get left. When ma saw you 
coming she said, ' the dickens ! ' and I guess she 
WIS mad about something. Ma said if you saw 
hex new dress, she'd have to hear all about the 
poor heathen, who don't have silk, and you'd 
ask her for money to buy hymn books to send 
*en\. Say, do the nigger ladies use hymn-book 
ka\ 2S to do their hair up on and make it frizzy ? 
Ma says she guesses that's all the good the books 
do 'em, if they ever get any books. I wish my 
doll was a heathen." 

**Why, you wicked little girl ! what do you 
want of a heathen doll ? ' ' inquired the mission- 
ary lady, taking a mental inventory of the new 
things in the parlor to get material for a homijy 
on worldly extravagance. 

*' So folks would send her lots of nice things 
to wear, and feel sorry to have her going about 
naked. Then she'd have her hair to frizz, and 
I want a doll with truly hair and eyes that roll 
up like Deacon Silderback's when he says amen 
on Sunday. I ain't a wicked girl, either, 'cause 
Uncle Dick — you know Uncle Dick, he's been 
15 



out West and swears awful and smokes in the 
house — he says I'm a holy terror, and he hopes* 
I'll be an angel pretty soon. Ma' 11 be down in 
a minute, so you needn't take your cloak off. 
She said she'd box my ears if I asked you to. 

''Ma's putting on that old dress she had last 
year^ 'cause she didn't want you to think she was 
able to give much this time, and she needed a 
muff worse than the queen of the cannon-ball 
islands needed religion. Uncle Dick says you 
oughter get to the islands, 'cause you'd be safe 
there, and the natives would be sorry they was 
such sinners anybody would send you to 'emo 
He says he never seen a heathen hungry enough 
to eat you, 'less 'twas a blind c-xe, an' you'd set 
a blind pagan's teeth on edge so he'd never 
hanker after any more missionary. Unck 
Dick's awful funny, and makes ma and pa die 
laughing sometimes." 

''Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved 
wretch, and ought to have remained out West, 
where his style is appreciated. He sets a horrid 
example for little girls like you." 

**0h, I think he's nice. He showed me now 
to slide down the banisters, and he's teaching 
me to whistle when ma ain't around. That's a 
pretty cloak you've got, ain't it? Do you buy 
all yoar clothes with missionary money? M? 
says you do." 

Just the? ne freckle -faced little girl's ma came 
into the ' ^rlor and kissed the missionary lady on 
the chec_. and said she was delighted to see her, 
anc .ixcy proceeded to have a real sociable chat. 
The little girl's ma cannot understand why a 
person who professes to be so cliaritable as the 
missionary agent does should go right over to 
Miss Dimmond' s and say such ill-natured things 
as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a 
double-faced gossip. The little girl understands 
it better than her ma does. 

225 



226 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



THE LANDLORD'S VISIT. 



^LD Widow Clare, 
yZJ) In a low-backed chair. 
Sat nid-nid-nodding ; 
While over the road 
Came Farmer McCrode 
A pUd-pHd-plodding. 

It was cold and snowing, and the wind was 
blowing 
At the rate of a hundred miles and hour ; 
While the farmer was fretting and his counten- 
ance getting 
Each moment more angry, forbidding and 
sour. 

' * She pays m^ no rent, although I have sent 
To her tirr.v; and again for the money ; 

\nd now wt^ shall see what she'll say to me, 
For the U\mg has long ceased to be funny." 

Thus he muttered aloud, while the snow like a 
shuoud 
Enveloped his burly old figure completely ; 
And 'twas dark, but not late, when he entered 
the gate 
Of the tenant he was going to astonish so 
neatly.. 
Disdaining to knock, he groped for the lock. 

And had already planted one foot on the sill. 
When, just by a chance, he happened to glance 
Through the window, and his heart for a 
moment stood still. 

He saw a woman nodding in a low old-fashioned 
chair ; 

Her face was sad and wrinkled, while silvered 
was her hair. 

A large and well-thumbed Bible on her lap half- 
opened lay. 

And a cat was softly purring in a sympathetic 
way. 

A scanty pile of fagots, in the fireplace burn- 
ing low, 



Lit up the room at intervals, and cast a melloTr 

glow 
O'er the kindly, aged face, like the nimbus we 

are told 
Which used to hover round the foreheads of the 

martyred saints of old. 
And the landlord drew up closer, that he might 

the better look 
On the plainly lettered pages of the unfamiliar 

Book; 
And the verse he dwelt the longest on, then read 

it through again. 
Was, ** Blessed are the merciful, for mercy they'll 

obtain. ' ' 

Now why he forebore to push open the door 

The farmer could offer no clear explanation ; 
Yet in spite of the storm, his heart had grown 
warm 
As he stood gazing in with a straBge fascina- 
tion. 

Then after a while a queer sort of smile 
Lit up his brown face now and then ; 

And when, at the last, he turned round artid 
passed 
Out into the snow-covered highway again. 

The smile was there still, and continued until 

He found himself facing the small village store. 
Though business was dull, the room was quite 
full 
Of hard-working men whose days' labor? 
were o'er. 

And all lazily sat round the stove for a chat. 
Each comfortably resting his head on his 
hands ; 
But they rose in affright, and their faces grew 
white 
When the farmer burst in and poured forth his 
commands. 
* * Just fetch me a sack, or a bag, and mind 
It's the larges*: and strongest that you can find. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



1% 



Now put in some 'taters — a peck will do ; 

A package of flour, and some turnips, too ; 

A piece of pork, wrapped good and strong, 

A nice smoked ham (don't be so long !)^ 

Now throw in a couple of pounds of tea — 

No, I won't be stingy, make it three. 

Say, you over there, just stop your staring — 

Do you think I'm a lunatic out for an airing? 

Some pepper and salt, and sugar, too ; 

Do 1 want ^ em mixed? I'd like to mix you ! 

Some crackers and cheese, dried peaches and 

snuff; 
An' I reckon as how you hev got 'bout enough. 
Just gimme a lift — there, that is all right ; 
Charge 'em to me; and now — good-night! " 

So back o'er the road he went with his load, 
Tossed, like a ship in ?. storm, to and fro ; 
But the heart of the farmer was very much 
warmer. 
And that makes a great deal of difference, you 
know. 

Arriving once more at the old cottage door. 
He peered through the window, and saw with 
delight 
That good Widow Clare still slept In her chair, 
Unconscious of what was transpiring that 
night. 

He never quite knew just how he got through 
That low, narrow door with the load on his 
back, 



Nor how he was able to reach the small table 
And noiselessly lay down the burdensome 
sack; 

But in less than a minute, every single thing m it 
Was spread out before him in tempting array. 

The turnips kept still, as they seldom will. 
And not even a potato rolled off and away. 

The old cat looked wise, and puffed up twice 

her size. 
But, seeing no harm to her mistress was meant, 
She resumed her deep thinking, and her gray 

eyes were blinking. 
When at last from the room the strange visitoi 

went. 



And now, once again, he pressed close to the 
pane. 
And endeavored to picture the widow's sur 
prise ; 
While it wasn't the snow, as you and I know, 
That he brushed once or twice from his eyes 

Then Farmer McCrode 
Went back o'er the road 

A plid-plid-plodding ; 
While still in her chair 
Sat old Widow Clare 

A nid-nid^nodding. 

De Witt Clinton Lockwood. 



GIVE THANKS FER WHAT? 




ET Earth give thanks," the deacon 

said, 
And then the proclamation r^id. 



^' Give thanks fer what, an' what about \ " 
Asked Simon Soggs when church was out. 
" Give thanks fer what ? I don'i see why ; 
The rust got in an' spiled my rye. 
And hay wan't half a crop, and corn 
All wilted down and looked forlorn ; 
The bugs jest gobbled my pertaters. 



The what-you-call-em lineatersy 

And gracious ! when you come to wheat, 

There's more than all the world can eat; 

Onless a war should interfere. 

Crops won't bring half a price this year ; 

I'll hev to give 'em away, I reckon ! " 

**Good for the poor ! " exclaimed the deacon 

'* Give thanks fer what ? ' ' asked Simon Soggs^ 
**Fer th' freshet carryin' off my logs^ 



228 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



Fer Dobbin goin' blind ? Fer five 

Uv my best cows, that was alive 

Afore the smashin' railroad come 

And made it awful troublesome ? 

Fer that hay stack the lightnin' struck 

And burnt to ashes? — thund'rin luck ! 

For ten dead sheep ? ' ' sighed Simon Soggs. 

The deacon said ** You've got yer hogs ! " 

**Give thanks ? And Jane and baby sick ? 
I e'enmost wonder if ole Nick 
Ain't runnin' things ! " 

The deacon said, 
** Simon ! yer people might be dead / " 

*'Give thanks ! " said Simon Soggs again, 

*'Jest look at what a fix we're in ! 

The country's rushin' to the dogs 

At race horse speed ! ' ' said Simon Soggs, 

** Rotten all through — in every State, — 

Why, ef we don't repudiate, 

We'll hev to build, fer big and small^ 

A poor-house that'll hold us all. 



All round the crooked whisky still 

Is runnin' like the Devil's mill ; 

Give thanks ? How mad it makes me feel. 

To think how office-holders steal ! 

The taxes paid by you and me 

Is four times bigger' n they should be : 

The Fed'ral Gov'ment's all askew. 

The ballot's sech a mockery, too ! 

Some votes too little, some to much. 

Some not at all — it beats the Dutch ! 

And now no man knows what to do, 

Or how is how, or who is who. 

Deacon ! corruption's sure to kill \ 

This ' glorious Union ' never will, 

I'll bet a continental cent. 

Elect another President ! 

Give thanks fer what^ I'd like to know?* 

The deacon answered, sad and low, 

*' Simon ! It fills me with surprise. 

Ye don't see whar yer duty lies ; 

Kneel right straight down, in all the muss. 

And thank God that it ain't no wuss ! " 

W. F. Croffu\ 



MILTIADES PETERKIN PAdL. 



ITTLE Miltiades Peterkin Paul 

Had been heard to declare he feared 
nothing at all. 
'There's Abiathar Ann' — he would say — 

*'now, 3it her age. 
One would think she might show a little more 

courage. 
Why, I really believe she would fall dead with 

fright, 
If she came down the lane by herself in the 

night. 
I can tell you, though, that's not the stuff I am 

made of ! 
I never saw anything / was afraid of ! " 

But one warm summer evening it chanced to 

befall 
That Little Miltiades Peterkin Paul, 
Having been to the village for John Henry Jack, 



Found it growing quite dark when he cam. 3 fe 

start back, 
But he thought, '^Pooh ! I don't care for that in 

the least ! " 
And he winked at the full moon, just up in the 

east : 
Then with hands in his pockets he swaggered 

along, 
While he kept up his courage with whistle and 

song. 

All at once young Miltiades Peterkin Paul, 

As he turned down the lane, perceived, close b} 

the wall, 
Right before him, a dark, ghostly shape, crouch- 
ing low, 
Which frightened poor Httle Miltiades so 
That he turned cold all over — our valiant young 
hero — 



**A 



n 



t 



OUR f REAT GRANDPARENTS WERE ONCE YOUNG, TOO. 
AND THIS IS THE WAY THEY USED TO 00. 




I'M NOT QUITE SURE I'LL TAKE YOU FOR MY MAID: 
WELL NOBODY ASKED YOU TO," SHE SAID. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



2*^9 



Just as though the thermometer' d dropped down 

to zero ; 
Then, his heart beating loudly, he covered his 

face 
With his hands, and trudged on at a much 

quicker pace. 
t 

But little Miltiades Peterkin Paul 
Had not gone many steps, when he thought, 

''After all, 
I may be mistaken } p'^rhaps I mistook 
Some old stump, or a rock, or the cow, for r 

'spook.' 
Why, what could I be thinking of ? " Then 

growing bolder, 
He ventured to cast a glance over his shoulder. 
When what was his wonder and horror to find 
That the spectre was following close behind. 

For one moment Miltiades Peterkin Paul 
Was so terribly frighted he thought he would fall j 
Then he flung his checked apron up over his head 
''d shut out the dread sight, and ingloriously 

fled. 
l5ut, alas ! by the footsteps behind he soon knew 
That his ghostly pursuer began to run, too ; 
And he uttered a shriek, and sped on without 

knowing 



(With his eyes covered up) just which way h© 
was going. 

But little Miltiades Peterkin Paul, 

Though he ran like the wind, found 'twas n 

use at all. 
The footsteps grew louder behind, and at last 
He suddenly found himself caught and held fast 
Whereupon;, faint with terror, he sank to his 

knees, 
And in piteous accents besought, "Oh, sir, 

please. 
Good, kind Mr. Ghost, let me go ! Oh, please 

do! 
I am sure I would do as much, gladly, for you ! " 

But just then the ghost spoke and soothed his 

alarms. 
And he found he rushed into his own brother's 

arms, 
"Why,"' cried John Henry Jack, "what does 

this mean, my lad ? Oh, 
I see. Ha, ha, ha ! Why sir, thaf s your own 

shadow / ' ' 
And, sure enough, when he uncovered his face. 
Our hero saw plainly that such was the case. 
"Well," said Httle Miltiades Peterkin Paul, 
"Please don't tell our Abiathar Ann — that is all ! '* 

John Brownjohn. 



HE looked just like that kind of a woman 
when she came into the sanctum, and all 
the seniors became instinctively very busy 
and so absorbed in their work that they did not 
see her, which left the youngest man on the staff 
an easy prey, for he looked at the visitor with a 
little natural politeness, and was even soft enough 
to offer her a chair. , 

"You are the editor?" she said, in a deep, 
bass voice. 

He tried to say "Yes," so that she could 
shear him, while his colleagues in the sanctum 
l^couldn't; but it was a failure, for the woman 
jgave him dead away in a minute. 

"You are!" she shouted, "then listen to 
^me ; Igok at me ; what arn I ? " 



THE EMANCIPATION OF MAN. 

The foolish youngest man looked at hei 



timidly and ventured to say, in a feeble voice, 
that she looked to be about forty-sev — " 

"Am I not a woman ? " she said. 

The youngest young man weakly tried to 
correct his former error, and .said she seemed 
more like a girl 

But again she broke in on him with a scornfi 
hiss : 

"Gir-r-l!" she said; "I am a woman! 
woman with all the heaven-born aspirations, th 
fathomless feelings, the aggressive courage and 
the indomitable will of a woman. What can 
you see on my face ? ' ' 

The position of the youngest man on the staff 
was pitiable, but none of the old heads appeared 



230 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



to obscr/c it. At least, they didn' t offer to help 
him out. So he looked at her face for a second, 
and said, timidly : 

^^Freckl— " 

'^Nursling!" she shrieked; "had you the 
soulful eyes of a free man you could see shining 
on my brow the rising hght of a brighter day. ' ' 

* ' Could I ? " asked the youngest man, timidly. 

'* Yes, you could I ! " the woman said in tones 
of unmeasureable scorn. "Now hear me, have 
you a — but I cannot bring myself to use that 
hateful expression in the style of masculine pos- 
session ; are you anybody's husband? " 

The youngest man blushed bitterly, and said 
:hat he wasn't as yet, but he had some hopes — 

"And you expect your — that is, you expect 
the woman whose husband you will be to sup- 
port you ? ' ' 

The youngest man blushed more keenly than 
before, and tremblingly admitted that he had 
some expectations — that — that — the only daugh- 
ter of his proposed father-in-law, if he might put 
it in that way — 

"Yah!" snarled the woman; " now let me 
tell you, the day of woman's emancipation is at 
hand. From this time we are free, fer-ree ! 
You must look for other slaves to bend and cringe 
before your majesties, and wait upon you like 
slaves. You will feel the change in your affairs 
since we have burst our chains, and how will you 
live without the aid of women? Who makes 
your shirts now ? ' ' she added, fiercely. 

The youngest man miserably said that a tailor 
on Jefferson street made his. 

"Hm," said the woman, somewhat discon- 
certed. "Well, who washes 'em, then?" she 
added, triumphantly. 

"A Chinaman, just west of Fifth street," the 



youngest man said, with a hopeful light in his 
eyes. 

The woman glared at him and groaned under 
her breath, but she came at him again with : 

"Proud worm, who cooks your victuals? " 

The youngest man said truly that he didn't 
know the name of the cook at his restaurant, but 
he was a man about forty years old, and round 
as a barrel, with whiskers like the stuffing of a sofa. 

The woman looked as though she was going 
to strike him. 

"Well," she said, as one who was leading a 
forlorn hope, "who makes up your bed and 
takes care of your room ? ' ' 

The youngest man replied with an air of truth 
and frankness that he roomed with a railroad 
conductor, and an ex-Pullman sleeping-car 
porter took care of their room. 

She paused when she reached the door, and 
turned upon him with the face of a drowning 
man who is only five feet away from a life buoy. 

"Miserable dependent," she cried, "who 
sews on your buttons ? ' ' 

The youngest man on the staff rose to his feet 
with a proud, happy look on his face. 

' ' Haven' t a sewed button on a single clothes, ' ' 
he cried, triumphantly ; " patents, every one of 
'em, fastened on like copper rivets, and not}i- 
ing but studs and collar-buttons on my shirts. 
Haven't had a button sewed on for three years. 
Patent buttons last for years after the garments 
have gone to decay." 

And the woman fled down the winding pas- 
sage and the labyrinthine stairs with a hollow 
groan, while the other members of the staff, 
breaking through their heroic reserve, clustered 
around the youngest man and congratulated him 
upon the emancipation of his sex. 



■HERE'S many a trouble 

Would break like a bubble. 
And into the waters of Lethe depart, 
Did we not rehearse it. 
And tenderly nurse it. 
And give it a permanent place in the heart. 



TROUBLE BORROWERS. 

There's many a sorrow 
Would vanish to-morrow. 

Were we but willing to furnish the wings ; 
So sadly intruding 
And quietly brooding, 

Jt hat?ches out all sorts of horrible things. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



231 



How welcome the seeming 

Of looks that are beaming, 
Whether one's wealthy or whether one's poor! 

Eyes bright as a berry, 

Cheeks red as a cherry. 
The groan and the curse and the heartache can 
cure. 



Resolve to be merry. 

All worry to ferry 
Across the famed waters that bid us forget ; 

And no longer fearful. 

But happy and cheerful. 
We feel life has much that's worth living fox 
yet. 



MUMFORD'S PAVEMENT. 



OME person accidentally upset a bucket of 
water on Mumford's pavement one of 
those snapping cold evenings last week, 
and Jack Frost slipping along soon after trans- 
formed it into a sheet of glistening, bone-break- 
ing ice. 

Mumford, wholly unconscious of the pitfall in 
front of his door, had just taken his seat at the 
basement window, when a stout eld gentleman 
came along, carrying a half-peck of cranberries 
tied up in brown paper, and softly humming to 
himself ; 

" I wisH I was a turtle-dovCj 
I wish I was a sparrow, 
I'd fly away to 

Je — ru — salem ! " he exclaimed, as his legs spread 
themselves suddenly apart. A frightened, dazed 
look crept into his eyes, and a minute later he 
had burst the suspender buttons off his panta- 
loons, and hopelessly ruined a new eight-dollar 
silk hat trying to butt a barrel of ashes into the 
gutter, while the air in that vicinity was filled 
with blue profanity and red cranberries. 

Owing to the thermometer being down one 
flight of stairs below zero, and the old gentleman 
not having a calcium light in his vest pocket, he 
concluded not to pick the eighty-eight-thousand- 
and-odd scattered cranberries, but contented 
himself by shaking his fist violently in Mumford's 
direction and yelling as he moved away : 

" I can lick the stuffing out of a hull cart-load 
of such ' smartys ' as you ! ' ' 

" Mercy, what a funny old gentleman ! first 
he falls down, and then he jumps up and blames 
me for it, ' ' remarked Mumford to his wife, who 
was sitting by the light, sewing. 

H^ can't to this hour recollect what reply his 



wife made, his whole attention being suddenly 
riveted upon a very tall, thin woman with a long 
nose and big bustle, who was dragging a fat, 
dumpling-built little boy along by the hand. 
She had reached about the same spot where the 
old gentleman a moment before had been per- 
forming, when she stopped suddenly, clutched 
wildly at vacancy, tried to kick her bonnet off, 
missed it by a few of the shortest kind of inches, 
tripped up the boy and sat down on him with a 
force that threatened to drive him through the 
earth to China. 

The prompt use of the boy preserver saved her 
bones and bustle from destruction, but :c flat- 
tened the sacrificing youth to a thickness of a 
Jack of Clubs in a euchre deck. 

^' Don't you grin at me, you nasty big baboon 
you ! ' ' she screamed, nodding her head ai 
Mumford, while she groped around for her false 
teeth that had slipped out of her mouth in the 
confusion. 

'^ She must certainly be drunk," soliloquized 
Mumford, watching her actions with amaze- 
ment. 

'^If I was a man I'd skin you ahve for this, 
you wretch ! ' ' she shouted, when she got her 
teeth back, her bonnet on, and her bustle propped 
up. 

*' Drunk, and a lunatic both. What've I got 
to do with her slamming herself around on the 
sidewalk, I'd likex to know?" he asked himself, 
as he watched her fading away in the darkness 
with her flattened boy in tow. 

A few moments later, as he was flattening his 
nose against the window pane, a pair of lovers 
came tripping along. 



232 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



**And, Amy, love," said the gentleman, 
<*I can hardly realize that soon you are to be 
my own little darling ducksey — Suffering alliga- 
tor ' " he shrieked, as his legs opened like a pair 
of compasses <tnd he struck the sidewalk with a 
jar that loostned his back teeth, lifted his scalp 
an inch or two, cooled his love, ripped his 
pantaloons, started his eyes full of tears, and 
made him regret bitterly that he'd forgotten so 
much of his boyhood's profanity. 

* ' O Fred ! ' ' exclaimed his fiance, trying to 
Uft him up by his paper collar, and the next 
instant his charmer's feet slipped on the ice, and 
after swaying to and fro for a moment, she 
attempted to turn a back somersault which her 
lover did not look upon as a success, owing 
probably to the fact of her kicking him in the 
ear as she went over him, with more of the force 
of a yellow mule or a dynamite cartridge, than 
^hat of the cardinal-stockinged idol of his heart. 

They got up, glanced sheepishly around to see 

my one had noticed them, tried to coax up a 
sickly smile, and limped away trying to look as 
if they didn't want to rub themselves. 

** Hang it all ! why don't you sprinkle some 



ashes on that ice ? " called out a grocer, who 

had skated off into the gutter, and mashed two 
dozen eggs, the back of his head, and a bottle of 
olive oil, in falling. 

" Oh ! there's ice there ; so that accounts for 
the gymnastics, ' ' said Mumford filhng a scuttle 
with hot coals and ashes, and hurrying out. 

Some of the neighbors, who happened to be 
looking out of their front windows about this 
time, have said since that it was grand and 
awe-inspiring to see Mumford, after remaining 
for a second on the back of his neck, pointing 
at the twinkling stars with his heels, and empty- 
ing his pockets out on the walk, suddenly collapse 
into a tangled, scorched and bruised heap, and 
fill the air with shrieks and more sparks than a 
firework explosion would make. 

A policeman helped his wife and the cook 
carry him into the house, and he has informed 
the doctor who is attending him, that as soon as 
he can cultivate enough skin to cover the burned 
places, he's going to move to a climate where it 
don't freeze once in a billion years. His wife, 
who was brought up in Sunday-school, thinks 
she has read of such a place in the Bible. 



MY FIRST RECITAL. 



WAS seized with an ambition to appear in 
public once, 
I was young and not bad looking, nor by 
any means a dunce ; 
But I little knew the trouble my wild desire 

would cause. 
Or the woes of those who try to win the "popu- 
lar applause." 

X had no voice for singing, so my fancy took its 

flight; 
I would study elocution and in public would 

recite ; 
So I bought a recitation, and I read it night and 

day, 
Until without a single break, I every word could 

say. 

I bought a book on action, ^^fl «i:tidi«^4 -ace ^id 
grace, 



And practised well, before the glass, each tragi- 
cal grimace, 

For I was of a sombre turn and loved dramatic 
rhyme, 

Of haunted towers, and lover's sighs, and deeds 
of horrid crime. 

I moved my eyebrows up and down, as tragic 

actors do, 
And ate a pound of acid drops, and sticky 

jujubes too ; 
I practised deep tones, very deep, and growled 

like any bear, 
Until my landlady would ask, ''What is that 

noise up there ? ' ' 

I joined a concert company, and had my name 

put down. 
And thought my first appearance was the talk of 

half the town ; 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



233 



The piece I had selected was a splendid one to 

''go," 
I had heaxd it oft recited by a fellow that I know. 

And when you hear the title, I am sure you'll 

say '* that's good," 
'Twas the most dramatic poem ever written by 

Tom Hood ; 
I had seen the ladies clap their hands, and give 

a little scream — 
Now, can't you guess the title? It was '^Eugene 

Aram's Dream! " 

It's rather difficult because of the recurring 

rhyme. 
But I thought I had quite mastered that and now 

could bide my time. 
My name upon the programme gave me quite a 

sudden start. 
But I knew my words exactly, so I cheered my 

drooping heart, 

And I practised more than ever in deep tones 
that tragic rhyme. 

And related all the details of the usher's horrid 
crime. 

And at last the wished-for evening came, as 
evenings ever will, 

For whatever we are doing time is never stand- 
ing still. 

The spacious hall was crowded with an audience 

most select, 
Ajid some most distinguished visitors whom we 

did not expect — 
A. real live Lord and Lady, and the Mayor of 

Blanktown, too. 
With a fierce moustachioed Captain of the Royal 

Horse Guards blue. 

The Vicar of the parish and Church wardens in 

a row. 
With crowds of gushing ladieS; e^h with her 
special beau, 



And one, I must confess it, the adored one of 

my heart. 
It was for her I tried to shine in this most tragic 

part. 

There was carpet on the platform, and banners 
trailed the ground. 

And a scented water fountain threw its perfumed 
spray around ; 

And plants of tropic beauty in pots were bloom- 
ing there. 

You scarcely could imagine a scene more won- 
drous fair. 

I looked at my adored one, with the glorious 
hazel eyes. 

And felt that her applause would be an all-suffi- 
cient prize. 

First a grand piano solo, then a chorus by the 
choir — 

I always had a notion that sweet music could 
inspire. 

And give a soldier courage ; but tne more I now 

reflect, 
I am quite sure that the music had an opposite 

effect, 
For although my head was burning I was tremb- 
ling like a leaf. 
Then I thought the songs might soothe me, but 

the songs were all too brief. 
When I looked upon the programme, and had 

marked off every name. 
It seemed as if my time t' appear like a flash of 

lightning came. 
I tried to feel collected, and as if I didn't care. 
But I felt my face was burning right away into 

my hair. 

I stood just behind the platform, trying vainl) 

to keep cool. 
And whispering softly to myself, '*Be calm, 

don't be a fool ! " 
When, smiling, our conductor round the corne* 

popped his head, 



234 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



*'Come, look sharp, Mr. Whififim, the platform 
waits ! " he said. 



Then I rushed upon the platform, nearly falling 

on my face, 
A-nd stood before the audience, glaring wildly 

into space. 
When I saw the upturned faces, I'd have given 

the world to say, 
** Please don't stare at me so rudely! Oh, do 

look the other way ! ' ' 

Where were all my tragic actions, which their 

feelings must have stirred ? 
And, O horror ! more important, where, oh 

where, was thQ Jirsi word / 
Vainly stared I at the ceiling, vainly stared I at 

the floor, 
Yes thC' words were quite forgotten, I had 

known so well before. 



A.nd I saw my own adored one hide her face 

behind her fan, 
A^nd a stout old lady murmured, ''Dear me, 

what can ail the man ? ' ' 
Then suddenly I remembered part of that most 

tragic rhyme. 
And I waved my arms and shouted, **In the 

prime of summer time." 



Why the audience laughed I know not, but they 

did, and I got mad, 
It was not a comic poem, and to laugh was much 

too bad ; 
Then I thought about my action, when ''some 

moody turns he took," 
And I tramped along the platform till the very 

rafters shook. 

Then I reached the thrilling portion where the 
ladies ought to scream, 

Then I said, "My lad, remember, this is noth- 
ing but a dream. ' ' 



But to me it was a nightmare, awful, but, alas { 

too true ; 
How I wished the creaking platform would but 

break and let me through. 

Oh ! but for one drink of water, one to cool my 

burning tongue. » 

Then I stooped to lift the body, then again i 

upward sprung ; 
I had clasped a splendid rose-bush, on my 

shoulder held it tight, 
Then I plunged into the audience, scattering it 

wildly left and right. 

And I dropped that splendid rose-bush on a 
stout old lady's lap, 

And the branches got entangled witn tne ribbons 
of her cap. 

Then I pulled it, waved it wildly, like a palm- 
branch high in air. 

Wig and cap hung in the branches — the old 
lady's head was bare. 

Wildly then I flung it from me, flung it ere "'' 

turned and fled. 
And it struck the portly Rector, struck him on 

his shiny head. 
Then the fierce moustachioed captain seized me 

with an angry shout. 
Lifted me by the coat collar, and, yes, really, 

kicked me out. 

Angelina, my adored one, passes me and does 
not bow, 

Angelina goes out walking with another fellow 
now. 

How I hate my wild ambition ! I detest dra- 
matic rhyme, 

And the art of elocution I would punish as a 
crime. 

For reciting may be pleasant if you don't aspire 
too high, 

But before you say it's easy, do as I did— go 
and try. 

W. A. Eaton. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



235 



BABY IN CHURCH. 



/^UNT NELLIE had fashioned a dainty 
/-J thing, 

/ Of Hamburg and ribbon and lace. 

A.nd mamma had said, as she' settled it round 

Our beautiful baby's face, 
'Vhere the dimples play and the laughter lies 
jl,ike sunbeams hid in her violet eyes ; 
" ' If the day is pleasant and baby is good, 
She may go to church and wear her new hood. ' ' 

Then Ben, aged six, began to tell. 

In elder-brotherly way. 
How very, very good she must be 

If she went to church next day. 
He told of the church, the choir, and the crowd. 
And the man up in front who talked so loud ; 
But she must not talk, nor laugh, nor sing^ 
But just sit as quiet as anything. 

And so, on a beautiful Sabbath in May, 
When the fruit-buds burst into flowers, 

(There wasn't a blossom on bush or tree 
So fair as this blossom of ours, ) 

All in her white dress, dainty and new. 

Our baby sat in the family pew. 

The grand, sweet music, reverent air. 

The solemn hush, and the voice of prayei 

Filled all her baby soul with awe. 

As she sat in her little place. 
And the holy look that the angels wear 

^^'"emed pictured upon her face. 



And the sweet words uttered so long ago 
Come into my mind with a rhythmic flow ; 
" Of such is the kingdom of heaven," said HCf 
And I knew that He spake of such as she. 

The sweet- voiced organ pealed forth again. 

The collection-box came round. 
And baby dropped her penny in. 

And smiled at the clinking sound. 
Alone in the choir Aunt Nellie stood. 
Waiting the close of the soft prelude. 
To begin her solo. High and strong, 
She struck the first note ; clear and long 

She held it, and all were charmed but one. 

Who, with all the might she had, 
Sprang to her little feet and cried : 

^'Aunf Nellie yoits being had J ' ' 
The audience smiled, the minister coughed, 
The little boys in the corner laughed. 
The tenor man shook like an aspen leaf. 
And hid his face in his handkerchief. 

And poor Aunt Nellie never could tell 
How she finished that terrible strain. 
But says that nothing on earth would tempt 

Her to go through the scene again. 
So, we have decided perhaps ' tis best. 
For her sake, ours, and all the rest. 
That we wait, maybe, for a year or two, 
Ere our baby re-enter the family pew. 



THE BICYCLE AND THE PUP. 



I^^IS a bicycle man, o'er his broken wheel, 
\®\ That grieveth himself full sore. 



For the joy of its newness his heart shall 
feel. 
Alack and alas ! no more. 

V/hen the bright sun tippeth the hills with gold. 

That rider upriseth gay. 
And with hat all be-ribboned and heart that is 
bold, 



Pursueth his jaunty way. 
He gazeth at folks in the lowly crowd 

With a most superior air. 
He thinketh ha ! ha ! and he smileth aloud 

As he masheth the maiden fair. 



Oh, he masheth her much in his nice new 
clothes, 
V Nor seeth the cheerful pup, 



236 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



Till he roots up the road with his proud, proud 
nose, 
While the little wheel tilteth up. 

Oh, that youth on his knees — though he doth 
not pray ! 
Is a pitiful sight to see. 



For his pants in their utterest part give way. 
While merrily laugheth she. 

And that bicycle man in his heart doth feel 
That the worst of unsanctified jokes 

Is the small dog that sniffeth anon at his whed 
But getteth mixed up in the spokes. 



PAT'S LOVE. 




0. 



CH hone, and it's Biddy McClooney, 

For whom me sowl is disazed. 
And the heart in me head is grown looney, 
And the brains in me bosom is crazed. 
I have lost all me love for pertaties — 
My affliction for inyuns and pork, 
For she is the finest of ladies 

That walks on the State of Ne' York. 



Me life with her worship runs over. 

Like a hod full of mortar ; I'm sick ; 
And me moments with mimeries of her 

Are as full as a hod full of brick. 
I think of her always and longer. 

From- night until morning, and back ; 
My love than good whisky is sthronger, 

And burdens me down like a pack. 

Her mouth is so sweet, and her kisses 
Are the rarest and best of the sort ; 

And her voice, when she's washing the dishes. 
Makes me jump like the cry of '* More 
mort." 



Her hair is as red as the raven's, 
And faith don't I worship the same 

When 'tis curled just like carpenter's sha^ 
ings, 
Or I see 't in the butther or crame ! 

Her eyes when she's mad they are firish, 

And had they a voice they could speak, , 
She's the best of her sex, and that's Irish, 

And she's thirty almost to a week. 
She can take her own part at the table 

In a way that could never be bate. 
And I wish 'twas myself that was able 

To buy all the victuals she'd ate. 

She has sworn on a stack of pertaties 

Some day to be mine she'd consint. 
And shure as me name is O'Gradies 

If she should change her intint 
I would grow to the weight of a shadder, 

And hardly know what I was at ; 
I'd drop from a six-story ladder, 

And make it the last of poor Pat. 

Joe Tot, Jk. 



MERRY MIKE. 




kERRY MIKE from the door bounded 
off to his play. 
With his head in his hat on a blustery 
day; 
When the wind of a sudden came frolicking 

down 
And lifted Mike's hat from his round little 
crown. 



Don't you call that funny, I'd like to know? 
Then he made up his mind to return to the 

house, 
But the merry wind pushed itself under hii 

blouse. 
And it roared and it roared, and he puffed as h( 

ran. 
Till it just knocked over this queer little man. 




THE DAUGHTER OF THE R EGI M ENT— SUGGESTION FOR A Tableau 



.. ... ^-<! 




CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES SUGGESTED FOR CHILDREN IN 

JUVENILE ENTERTAINMENTS 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



237 



''Ho! ho! ho!" said Mike, and he said ''ha! 

ha! ha! 
I'll get up again, old wind, you see.'* 

Then the wind with a flurry of bluster and 

racket 
Went crowding and crowding under his jacket, 
And it Hfted him off of his two little feet, 
And carried him bodily over the street. 

Mike laughed ha ! na ! ha ! and he laughed 
ho ! ho ! ho ! 

But the wind, with its antics, was plainly not 

through, 
For fiercer and fiercer, and fiercer it blew. 
Till making one effort of fury intense 
It carried Mike bodily over the fence. 

He met there a somewhat discouraged old cow. 
That had blown thither too, though he failed to 

see how, 
Then he smiled and said, '' Make yourself easy, 

my friend. 
Only keep your mind quiet and things will soon 

mend," 
Mike laughed ha ! ha ! ha ! and he laughed ho ! 

ho! ho! 
* *For the wind is just playing, old cow, you know. ' ' 



As he scampered off home, what above should 

he see 
But the roof of a shed that had lodged in a tree; 
And he laughed and he laughed till his side* 

fairly ached, 
For, he said, this is better than wedding or wake 
And he roared, ha 1 ha! ha ! ho ! ho 1 ho ! 

' ' That boy, ' ' say the terrified folks of the town, 
''He would laugh just the same if the sky 

tumbled down." 
''Indeed, and I would," answered Mike, with a 

grin, 
"For I might get a piece with a lot of stars in." 
And he chuckled, he ! he ! he ! and he chuckled, 

ho ! ho ! ho ! 
The very idea delighted him so. 

His father complained to the priest, "Now, I 
say, 

Mike never stops laughing by night or by day. ' ' 

"Let him laugh," spoke the priest, "he will 
change by and by ; 

'Tis better to laugh than to grumble and cry. 

It's the way with the lad; let him laugh if he- 
like. 

And be glad you've a son that's as merry as 
Mike." 



SAVED BY A GHOST. 



W 



ES, sir, I do believe in ghosts. Why ? 
^ Well, sir, because I saw one once. 

Tell you about it? Well, sir, I will, if 
you'll set down an' listen. 'Taint very much to 
tell, but it was a good deal to see, you can jest 
bet your life, an' I never go by the place when I 
see it without feelin' kind o' scary. 

Lem' me see. 'Twas in '6o. I was jest 
beginnin' my work on this road that year. I'd 
been on a road out West, but a friend got me 
the position here that I've kep' ever senoe. 

It was a rainy, disagreeable day when the affair 
I'm goin' to tell you about happened. Jest one o' 
them days that makes a feller feel blue in spite 
of himself, an' he can't tell why, neither, 'less 
he lays it all to the weather. 



I don't know what made "me feel so, but it 
seemed as if there was danger ahead ever after 
we left Wood's Station. An' what made it seem 
so curious was that the feelin' o' danger come on 
me all to once. It was jest about four o'clock, 
as near as I can tell. Anyway, jest about the 
time when the down express must have got safely 
by the place where what I'm goin' to tell you 
about happened, I was a-standin' with one hand 
on a lever, a-lookin' ahead through the drizzlin' 
rain, feelin' chilly an' kinder downhearted, as 
I've said, though I didn't know why, when, all 
of a sudden, the idea come to me that somethin' 
was wrong somewhere. It took hold o' me an' 
I couldn't get red of it, nohow. 

It got dark quite early, on account o' the fog 



238 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



an' the ram ; it was dark as pitch afore we left 
Holbrook which was the last station we passed 
afore we come to the place where I see the 
ghost. 

^'I never felt so queer in my life afore," said 
Jimmy, the firemen, to me, a] I of a sudden. 

As I was feelin' queer myself, he kinder 
'startled me, a-sayin' what he did. 

''Why ! What d'ye mean? " said I, without 
iettin' on that I felt uneasy myself. 

''Do' know," answered Jimmy; "can't tell 
how I do feel, on'y as if suthin' was goin' to 
happen. ' ' 

That was /est it I I felt the same thing, an' I 
told him so, an' we talked about it till we both 
got real figety. 

There's a purty sharp curve about twenty 
miles from Holbrook. The road makes a turn 
round a mountain, an' the river runs below ye, 
about forty feet, or seech a matter It is a 
pokerish lookin' place when you happen to be 
goin* over it an' think what 'ud be if the train 
should pitch over the bluff inter the river. 

Wall, we got to the foot o' the mountain jest 
Adhere the curve begins. The light from the 
head-lamp lit up the track and made it bright as 
day, about as fur as from me to the fence yonder, 
ahead o' the engine. Outside o' that spot, all 
was dark as you ever see it, I'll bet. 

All to once I see suthin' right ahead, in the 
bright light. We allers run slow round this 
curve, so I could see distinct. My hair riz 
right up, I tell ye, fer what I see was a man 
a-standin' right in the middle o' the track, 
a-wavin' his hands ; an' I grabbed hold o' the 
lever an' whistled down brakes, an' stopped the 
train as fast as ever I could, fer ye see I thought 
'twas a live man. An' Jimmy he see it too, an' 
turned round to me with an awful scart face, fer 
he thought sure he'd be run over. 

But I began to see 'twan't any fiesh-and-blood 
man afore the train come to a stop, for it seemed 
to glide right along over the track, keepin' jest 
about so fer ahead of us all the time. 

"It's a ghost," cried Jimmy, a grabbin' me 
by the arm. "You can see right through him." 



An' we could ! 

Yes, sir, we could. When I come to notice 
it, the figger ahead of us was a kind of foggy- 
lookin' thing, and only half hid anything that 
was behind it. But it was jest as much hke a 
man as you be, an' you'd a said the same thing 
if you'd a seen it. 

The train stopped. An' then, sir, what d'ye 
think happened ? 

Well sir, that f/img jest grew thinner an' thin- 
ner, till it £3emed to blend right in with the fog 
that was all around it, and the fust we knew 
'twas gone ! 

"It was a ghost ! " said Jimmy, in a whisper. 
"I knew somethin' was a-goin' to happen, 
'cause I felt so queer like." 

They come a crowdin' up to find why I'd 
stopped the train, an' I swear I never felt so 
kind o' queer and fooHsh as I did when I told 
'em what I'd seen 'cause I knew they didn't 
b'leeve in ghosts, most Hkely, an' they'd think 
I was drunk or crazy. 

"He see it, too," sez I, a pointin' to Jimmy. 

"Yes, 'fore God, I did," sez Jimmy, solemn 
as if he was a witness on the stand. 

"This is a pretty how-d'ye-do," sez the con- 
ductor, who didn't b'leeve we'd seen anything. 
''I'm surprised at you, Connell; I thought you 
was a man o' sense." 

" I thought so, too," sez I, " but I can't help 
what I see. If I was a dyin' this minnit I'd 
swear I see a man on the track, or leastwise the 
ghost of one. I thought 'twas a real man when 
I whistled." 

"An' so would I," sez Jimmy. 

The conductor couldn't help seein' that we 
was in earnest, an' b'leeved what we said. 

" Take a lantern an' go along the track," sez 
he, to some o' the men. 

An' they did. An' what d'ye s'pose they 
found ? 

Well, sir, they found the rails all tore up jest 
at the spot where the train would a shot over the 
bluff into the river if it had gone on ! 

Yes, sir ; they found that, an' I tell you there 
was some D^etty solemn lookin' faces when it got 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



239 



rtmong the passengers how near we'd been to 
death. 

** I never b'leeved in ghosts," sez the conduc- 
tor, '* but I b'leeve you see something ConneU, 
an' you've saved a precious lot o' lives. That's 
a sure thing. ' ' 

Well, sir, they went to huntin' round, an' 
they found a lot o' tools an' things that the men 
who'd tore up the rails had left in a hurry, when 
they found the train wasn't goin' over the bluff 
as they'd expected. An' they found, too, when 
it come light, the body o' the man whose busi 



ness it was to see to the curve, where it had been 
hid a^^'ay after bein' murdered. An' that man 
was the man whose ghost we had seen. 

Yes, sir. He'd come to warn us o' the dan- 
ger ahead after the men had killed him an' was 
a-waitin' for us to go over tne rocks to destruc- 
tion. An' he'd saved us. 

I found out afterward that there was a lot o' 
money on board, an' I s'pose the men who tore 
up the track knew it. 

So that's my gh^st story, an' it's a true one, sir. 
Eben E. Rexpord. 



WIDDER BUDD. 



<^ 'M fifty, I'm fair, aii' without a gray hair, 
(J) An' I feel just ez young ez a girl. 

When I think o' Zerrubbabel Lee, I declare 
It sets me all into a whirl. 
Last night he wuz here, an' I told him to 
''clear" — 
An' my ! How supprised he did look : 
Perhaps I was rash, but he's after my cash — 
I see through his plans like a book. 

Some offers I've had that I can not call bad. 

There was Deacon Philander Breezee ; 
I'd a sartin sed Yes, when he wanted a kiss, 

Ef he hadn't so flustrated me. 
It took me so quick that it felt like a kick — 

I flew all to pieces at once ; 
Sez I, '* You kin go — I'm not wanting a beau ;'* 

I acted, I know, like a dunce. 

Sez ne, ez he rose, '^ I hev come to propose." 

I stopped him afore he began : 
Sez I, ** You kin go, an' see Hepzibah Stow — 

I worC t be tied down to a many 
'* Mariar," ses he, * Widder Tompkins an' me 

Kin strike up a bargain, I know ; 
An', seein' ez we can't decide to agree, 

I guess that I better hed go." 

He picked up his hat from the chair where it sat 
An' ariUmnly started away 



Sez I, with a look ?;hat I'm sure he mistook, 
''You're perfectl3'- weicome to stay." 

My face got ez red e^ our old waggin-shed — 
I thought for the land I should melt. 

Sez he, "I am done. Good night, leetle one," 
I wish he'd a known ?70^ I felt. 



To-c^;ay, Isaac Beers, with his snickers and sneers, 

Wnose face is ez ugly ez sin. 
Dropped in jest to see about buyin' my steers, 

An' tickled the mole on my chin. 
Sez I, "You jest quit ; I don't like you a bit ; 

You can't come your sawder on rae. 
You'd better behave till Jane's cold in her grave, 

Your manners is ruther too free." 



When dear David died (sniff — sniff), e? "^ sot 
by his side (sniff — sniff) \ 

He ketched up my hand in his own (sniff- 
sniff) ; 

He squeezed it awhile (sniff — sniff) an' he sez 
with a smile (sniff — sniff), 

"You'll soon be a widder alone (sniff — sniff- 
sniff). 

An' when I am gone (sniff— sniff) don't you 
fuss an' take on (sniff— sniff), 
Like old V/idder Dorothy Day (sniff— sniff). 

Look out fur your tin (sniff— sniff ") if you marry 
agin (sniff — sniff), 



i 



240 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



Nor throw your affections away (sniff — sniff — 
sniff). 

My children hev grown, an' have homes o' their 
own — 
They're dbin' ez well ez they can {wipes her 
eyes and nose): 



An' I'm gettin' sick o' this livin' alone — 

I wouldn't mind havin' a man. 
Fur David hez gone to the mansion above — 

His body is cold in the ground, 
Ef you know of a man who would marry for 

love. 
Jest find him an' send him around. 



MR. SANSCRIPrS SLIDE DOWN HILL. 



HE boys were coasting down the hill last 
evening when John Sanscript and his 
wife came along. They had been visit- 
ing some friends and were on their way home. 

"Just see them boys, now," said John, as he 
braced up at the street crossing. ''It really 
reminds me of the days when I was a lad. Do 
you know, Jane, that I used to coast down hill 
on a sled that way?" 

''Did you, John?" 

"Why, yes; but that was fifty years ago." 

Sanscript scratched his head contemplatively 
and then muttered sotto voce: "I think I'll try 
it again." 

"Try what, dear?" anxiously asked Mrs. S. 

"I'm going to coast just once, to revive 
recollections of fifty years ago." 

"Now, John, if I were y6u — " 

"But you are not me, so don't interfere. 
Here sonny" (to a lad who had just puffed up 
the hill with his sled); " here, sonny, I'll give 
you a quarter to let me slide down on your sled 
once. ' ' 

The bargain was eigerly nailed and clinched. 

"Be keerful, old man," urged the boy, as 
Sanscript squatted rather awkwardly on the sled ; 
"be keerful, I say, and don't let her flunk one 
way or t'other till she springs up, or you will git 
toashed." 

"Never mind, yonker," assured John ; "I've 
been here afore, some years afore, but — " 

But what will never be known, for just then 
tiie sled of its own accord started down hill, 
and even John himself has not since been able 
to recall what he was about to observe. The 
surprise at the sled's unexpected movement was 
general. 



' ' Look out 1 " yelled the boy. 

"O John!" screamed Mrs. Sanscript. 

' ' Whoa there ! ' ' yelled John. 

But the sled wouldn't whoa. It seemed to 
have set off down the hill to beat its best time. 
John had chance only to clutch hold of both 
sides and hold his breath for fear the wind would 
blow off the top of his head. The only thought 
he had time to foster was that the boy must have 
greased the sled's runners as a practical joke. 
And if this was coasting, he had never coasted, 
if his recollection had served him right. 

Two-thirds the way down the hill the sled 
struck an ice hammock, and immediately his 
course was changed to a parabolic curve. 

Wack ! bang ! clash ! clink ! 

The bringing up was awfully sudden and un- 
certain. Sanscript and the sled disappeared as 
abruptly as a shooting star. The latter lay 
shivered to atoms against a lamp-post, and San- 
script lay shivering in the grocery cellar just 
opposite. When the off-runner of the sled 
collided with the lamp-post and stopped the 
vehicle, Sanscript rose like a circus-leaper and 
went right on, turning twenty somersaults to the 
second. He went through the grocery window 
as the circus-leaper goes through a paper hoop. 
All the ginger-bread horses and candy apples and 
other Christmas luxuries were disarranged, of 
course. One of Sanscript' s feet struck a cheese 
on the counter, scattering the skippers in con- 
sternation. The old coaster bounced five feet at 
an obtuse angle, touching again for a second at 
the top step of the cellar stairs in the rear of the 
store, and then, continuing like a diver into the 
Plutonic depth below, he went feet foremost 
through the head of a hogshead filled with some- 



I 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



241 



ihing soft. At first he was uncertain whether 
[the contents were Orleans molasses or melted 
jlucose. Before he had time to investigate, the 
jrocer and two policemen came down. The un- 
[happy old boy was lifted out of his sweet pickle 
[and hauled off to the station-house, on a charge 
[of malicious destruction of property. The 
[grocer appeared soon after and compromised 
[upon John paying the following bill : 

Window sash ^lo oo 



Crushed cheese 
Hogshead molasses 
Christmas goods . 

Total ^71 36 



12 


00 


48 


20 


I 


16 



Then the boy came in with a bill of $5 foi 
his sled, to say nothing of the loss oi a suit of 
clothes, a surgeon's bill for plastering sundry 
skinned surfaces, and the biil of a hackman who 
conveyed the fainting wife home. In the 
cooler moments of afterthought Sanscript 
reckoned it up and discovere>i that it had cost 
him ^109.78 to recall recollections of fifty years 
ago, and required but one minute and five 
seconds of old Father Time in which to do the 
recollecting. 

He is not quite sure that it pays to be an 
old boy, and he is firmly resolved that if he ever 
recovers and wishes to go down that hill again, 
he will walk. 



AIN'T HE CUTE. 



i^vRRAYED in snow-white pants and vest 
I— J And other raiment fair to view, 
/ I stood before my sweetheart Sue, — 

The charming creature I love best. 

**Tell me, and does my costume suit?'* 
I asked that apple of my eye. 
And then the charmer made reply — 
*^0h, yes, you do look awful cute ! '* 

Although I frequently had heard 
My sweetheart vent her pleasure so, 



I must confess I did not know 

The meaning of that favorite word. 

But presently at window side 

We stood and watched the passing throng 
And soon a donkey passed along 

With ears like sails extending wide. 

And gazing at the doleful brute 

My sweetheart gave a merry cry, — 
I quote her language with a sigh, — 

" O Charlie, ain't he awful cute?" 



WHAT ADAM MISSED. 



fi 



DAM never knew what 'twas to be a boy. 
To wheedle pennies from a doting sire. 

With which to barter for some pleasing toy. 
Or calm the rising of a strong desire 



To suck an orange. Nor did he 

E'er cast the shuttlecock to battledoor; 

Nor were his trousers ever out at knee, 

From playing marbles on the kitchen floor. 

■ He never skated o'er the frozen rill. 

When winter's covering o'er the earth was 
spread ; 
^Nor ever glided down the slippery hill. 



With pretty girls upon his trusty sled. 
16 



He never swung upon his father's gate. 
Or slept in sunshine on the cellar door, 

Nor roasted chestnuts at the kitchen grate, 
Nor spun his humming top upon the floor. 

He ne'er amused himself with rows of bricks. 
So set, if one fall, all come down ; 

Nor gazed delighted at the funny tricks 
Of harlequin or traveling circus clown. 

By gradual growth he never reached the age 
When cruel Cupid first invokes his art. 

And stamps love's glowing lesson, page by page, 
Upon the tablets of a youngling's heart. 



242 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



He never wandered forth on moonlight nights, 
With her he loved above all earthly things ; 

Nor tried to mount old Pindar's rocky heights, 
Because he fancied love had lent him wings. 

He never tripped it o'er the ball-room floor, 
( Where love and music intertwine their charms. 



Nor wandered listless by the sandy shore, 
Debarred the pleasures of his lady's arms. 

For Adam, — so at least it has been said 
By many an ancient and a modern sage, — 

Before a moment of his life had fled, 
Was fully thirty y '.ars of age / 



GUNN'S LEG. 



f^\ GOOD deal of interest was felt in the 
lij case of Gunn vs. Barclay, which was 
/ tried recently in the Blank County 

Court. It involved the question of the owner- 
ship of Gunn's right leg. Gum related the 
facts of the case as follows : 

You see, one day last winti :, while I was 
shoveling snow off the roof of my house, I 
slipped and fell over on the pavement below. 
When they picked me up they found that my 
right leg was fractured. Dr. Barclay examined 
it and gave it as his opinion that mortification 
would be certain to set in unless that leg came 
off". So I told him he'd better chop it away. 
A.nd he went round to his office, and presently 
he came back with a butcher knife and a cross- 
cut saw and a lot of rags. Then they chloro- 
formed me, and while I was asleep they removed 
that leg. When I came to I felt pretty com- 
fortable, and the doctor, after writing some pre- 
scriptions, began wrapping my off leg up in an 
old newspaper ; then he tucked the bundle under 
his arm and began to move toward the door. I 
was watching him ail the time, and I hallooed at 
him : 

'■ '■ Where in the mischief are you going with 
that leg of mine ? ' ' 

''I'm not going anywhere with that leg of 
yours," he said. ''But I am going home with 
my leg." 

"Well, you'd bener drop it," said I. "It 
belongs to me, and I want it for a keepsake. ' ' 

And you know he faced me down about it, — 
said when a doctor sawed a man apart, he always 
took the amputated member as one of his per- 
q^uisites j and he said that, as it was his legal 



right to take something on such occasions, it was 
merely optional with him whether he took the 
leg, or left the leg and took me ; but he preferred 
the leg. And when I asked him what he wanted 
with it, anyway, he said he was going to put it 
in a glass jar, full of alcohol, and stand it in his 
office. Then I told him it shocked my modesty 
to think of a bare leg of mine being put on exhibi- 
tion in that manner, with no pantaloon on: "^^ut 
he said he thought he could stand it. 

But I protested. I said I had had that leg a 
good many years, and I felt sort of attached to 
it. I knew all its little w^ays. I would feel 
lonely without it. Who w^ould tend to the 
corns that I had cared for so long ? Who w^ould 
treat the bunion with the proper degree of deli- 
cacy ? Who would rub the toes with liniment 
when they got frosted ? And who would keep 
the shin from being kicked 7 No one could do 
it as well as I could, because I felt an interest in 
the leg ; felt sociable and friendly, and 
acquainted with it. But Barclay said he thought 
he could attend to it, and it would dc the corns 
good to be soaked in alcohol. 

And I told him I'd heard that, even after a 
man lost a limb, if any one hurt that limb the 
original owner felt it, and I told Barclay I would 
not trust him not to tread on my toes, and stick 
pins in my calf, and make me suffer every time 
he had a grudge against me ; and he said he 
didn't know, maybe he would if I didn't use 
him right. 

And I wanted to know what \vas to hinder 
him, if he felt like it, taking the bone out of 
the leg and making part of it up into knife- 
handles and suspender buttons, and working the 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



243 



rest up into some kind of a clarionet with finger 
holes punched in the sides. I could stand a good 
deal, I said, even if I had only one leg ; but I 
couldn't bear to think of a man going around 
the community serenading girls with tunes 
played on one of my bones — a bone, too, that I 
felt a good deal of affection for. If he couldn't 
touch a girl's heart without serenading her with 
one of my bones, why he better remain single. 

We blathered away for about an hour, and at 
last he said he was disgusted with so much bosh 
about a ridiculous bit of meat and muscle, and 
he wrapped the paper around the leg again and 
rushed out of the door for home. 

When I sued him, and the case came up in 
court, the judge instructed the jury that the 
evidence that a leg belonged to a man was that 



he had it, and as Barcky had this leg, the pre- 
sumption was that it was his. But no man was 
ever known to have three legs and as Barclay 
thus had three the second presumption was tha* 
it was not his. 

But as Gunn did not have it, the law could 
not accept the theory that it was Gunn's leg, and 
consequently the law couldn't tell who under 
the sun the leg belonged to, and the jury would 
have to guess at it. So the jury brought in a ver- 
dict against both of us, and recommended that, 
in the uncertainty that existed, the leg should bv. 
buried. The leg was lying during the trial out 
in the vestibule of the court room, and we 
found afterward that during the trial Bill Wood's 
dog had run off with it, and that settled the 
thing. Queer, wasn't it. 



TREADWATER JIM. 




HO'S DAT?— -W'y dat's Treadwater 
Jim, 
De wust little nigger in town ; 
What de folkes all sez dey'll hang him, 

'Kase why, hit don't seem he kin drown ! 
He keeps hisself dere in de watah 

*Bout half ob his time in de year ; 
An* ef he's got any home round hyar 
Hits out on de eend ob dat pier ! 



**Well, de name what's he's got — it was gin 
him 

By folkes what was kno'in de facks, 
Fer dey sed dat sum title was due him 

'Kase he'd done wun de nobles' of acks I 
Ob koarse I kin tell yer de story, 

'Kase I was rite dare on de spot. 
An' ef Jim is entutl'd to glory 

He fa'rly earnt all dat he's got ! 

*' Yer see, hit waz out on de wahf, dar, 

Wun sunshiny mawnin in May, 
Dat er little chile up from de Nawf, sah, 

Wuz tooken out dar fer ter play ; 
An' Jim wuz out dar wid his fish line, 



An' de nuss warn't a-watchin' de chile. 
So hit walked off rite inter de brine 
At dat corner dar by de big pile. 

''Well, den dar wuz skreamin' and cryin' 

Fum all de folkes round on de pier. 
But Jim seed hit warn't no use tryin' 

Ter reskew de chile fum up heah — 
So he tuck er long dive fer de watah 

An' struck whar de chile hed gone down. 
An' hit tuck him so long fer ter fine hit 

De people tho't bofe 'em would drown. 

**But purty soon out in de stream dar 

Er kinky black hed cum in sight. 
An' helt close ter his bres' wif bofe han's, sa> 

Wuz de baby all limpy an' white ! 
Den de moufs ob de peeple wuz opened 

In er long an' enkuridgin shout i 
* Cum on wid de bote, men ! ' Jim hollered-— 

'I'll tread watah on till yer get out I ' 

*' Den dey bent ter der ores like MArsters, 
An' flew ter whar Jim, wid d*. chile, 

Wuz doin' his bes' ter keep f oidn* 
But weak'unin' hiz lick aU ie while. 



.i;_. 



244 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



Dey brought de two heah ter de landin', 
An' de uxother wuz crazy wid joy, 

While de father jiss retched fer dat darkey 
Ap hugged him ez do' his own boy ! 

*So, yer see, dat's de reezin dey gib him 
De name dat yer heered me jess call — 



An' nobody bodders along wid Jim, 
An' he does ez he pleazes wid all ! 

Ob koarse, what he done wuz right brave, sah, 
An' mebbe wuz worthy er crown — 

But Jim ! — Well, Jim's jess de blamedes' 
No 'count little nigger in town ! " 

Samuel W. Small. 



EXPERIENCE WITH A REFRACTORY COW. 

[To be most eflfective, this piece should be given in costume.] 



w 



'E used tO keep a cow when we lived in 
the country, and sich a cowl Law 
sakes' Why, she used to come to be 
.nilked as rcg'lar as clock-work. She'd knock 
at the gate with her horns, jest as sensible as any 
other human critter. 

Her nam*^ was Rose. I never knowed how she 
got that name, for she was black as a kittle. 

Well, one day Rose got sick, and wouldn't 
eat nothing, poor thing ! and a day or so arter 
she died. I raly do believe I cried when that 
poor critter was gone. Well, we went for a 
little spell without a cow, but I told Mr. Scrug- 
gins it wouldn't do, no way nor no how; and he 
gin in. Whenever I said musf Mr. Scruggins 
knowed I meant it. Well, a few days arter, he 
come home with the finest cow and young calf 
you ever seed. He gin thirty dollars for her and 
the calf, and seventy-five cents to a man to help 
bring her home. 

Well, they drove her into the back yard, and 
Mr. Scruggins told me to come out and see her, 
and [ did ; and I went up to her jest as I used to 
did to Rose, and when I said ^^Poor Sukey," 
vol A you believe it? the nasty brute kicked me 
righi in the fore part of my back; her foot 
catcLed into my dress — bran-new dress, too — 
cost fifty cents a yard, and she took a dollar's 
»vorth right out as clean as the back of my hand. 

I G.r,reeched right out and Mr. Scruggins 
kotchcJ me jest as I was dropping, and he car- 
ried ms to the door, and I went in and sot down. 
I felt kind o' faintish, I was so abominable 
skeered. 

Mr. Scruggins said he would larn her better 



manners, so he picked up the poker and went 
out, but I had hardly began to get a leetle 
strengthened up afore in rushed my dear husband 
a-flourishing the poker, and that vicious cow 
arter him like all mad. Mr. Scruggins jumped 
into the room, and, afore he had time" to turn 
round and shut the door, that d*;sperate brute 
was in, too. 

Mr. Scruggins got up on the dining-room ■ 
table, and I run into the parior. I thought I'd 
be safe there, but I was skeered so bad that I 
forgot to shut the door, and, sakes alive ! after 
hooking over the dining-room table and rolling 
Mr. Scruggins off, in she walked into the parlor, 
shaking her head as much as to say: **I'll give 
you a touch now. ' ' I jumped on a chair, but 
thinking that warn't high enough, I got one foot 
on the brass knob of the Franklin stove, and pul 
the other on the mantel-piece. You ought to 
ha' seen that cow in our parlor; she looked all 
round as if she was 'mazed; at last she looked in 
the looking-glass, and thought she seed another 
cow exhibiting anger like herself; she shuck her 
head and pawed the carpet, and so did her 
reflection, and — would you believe it? — that ' 
awful brute went right into my looking-glass. 

Then I boo-hoo'd right out. All this while 
I was getting agonized; the brass knob on the 
stove got so hot that I had to sit on the narr^r 
mantel-piece and hold on to nothing. I dussent 
move for fear I'd slip off. 

Mr. Scruggins came round to the front door, 
but it was locked, and then he come to the 
window and opened it. I jumped down and | 
run for the window, and hadn't more'n got my ' 



11 




! ^ 



h 






lOTO, Lf MOhRloOt-,, CHICAG.O 

A HUMOROUS RECITATION 



oor,.j 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



245 



head out afore I heard that critter a-coming after 
me. Gracions! but I was in a hurry; more 
haste, less speed, always; for the more I tried to 
climb quick the longer it took, and just as I got 
ready to jump down, that brute of a cow kotched 
me in the back and turned me over and over out 
of the window. 

Well, when I got right side up, I looked at 
the window and there stood that cow, with her 
head between the white and red curtains, and 
another piece of my dress dangling on her horns. 

Well, my husband and me was jest starting 
for the little alley that runs alongside of the 
house, when the cow give a bawl, and out of 
the window she come, whisking her tail, which 
had kotched fire on the Franklin stove, and it 
served her right. 

Mr. Scruggins and me run into the alley in such 
haste we got wedged fast. Husband tried to get 
ahead, but I'd been in the rear long enough, 
and I wouldn't let him. That dreadful cow no 
sooner seen us in the alley, than she made a dash, 
but thank goodness ! she stuck fast, too. 

Husband tried the gate, but that was fast, and 
there wasn't nobody in.'^ide the house to open it. 



Mr. Scriggins wanted to climb over and unbolt 
it, but I wouldn't let hin I wasn't going to be 
left alone again with that desperate cow, even if she 
was fast ; so I made him help me over the gate. 
Oh, dear, climbing a high gate when you're 
skeered by a cow is a dreadful thing, and I 
know it ! 

Well, I got over, let husband in, and then it 
took him and me and four other neighbors to 
get that dreadful critter out of the alley. She 
bellowed and kicked, and her calf bellowed to 
her, and she bawled back again ; but we got 
her out at last, and such a time ! I'd had 
enough of her; husband sold her for twenty 
dollars next day. It cost him seventy-five cents 
to get her to market, and when he tried to pass off 
one of the five dollar bills he got, it turned out 
to be a counterfeit. 

Mr. Scruggins said to his dying day that he 
believed the brother of the man that sold him 
the cow bought it back again. I believe it 
helped to worry my poor husband into his grave. 
An, my friends, you better believe I know what 
a cow is. I don't need an introduction to any 
female of the cow species. 



THE RAILROAD CROSSING. 



(T CAN'T tell much about the thing, 'twas 
(J) done so powerful quick ; 

But 'pears to me I got a most outlandish 
heavy lick : 
It broke my leg, and tore my skulp, and jerked 

my arm most out. 
Bui take a seat : I'll try and tell jest how it kem 
about. 



fou see, I'd started down to town, with thai 

'ere team of mine, 
1 A-haulin' down a load o' corn to Ebenezer 

Kline, 
And drivin' slow ; for, jest about a day or <:wo 

before, 
The off-horse run a splinter in his foot, and made 

it sor«. 



You know the railroad cuts across the road at 

Martin's Hole : 
Well, thar I seed a great big sign, raised higk 

upon a pole ; 
I thought I'd stop and read the thing, and find 

out what it said. 
And so I stopped the hosses on the railroad-track, 

and read. 

I ain't no scholar, rekoUect, and so I had to 

spell, 
I started kinder cautious like, with R-A-I- 

and L; 
And that spelt ''rail" as clear as mud ; 

R-OA-D was ''road." 
I lumped 'em: "railroad" was the word, and 

that 'ere much I knowecj. 



246 



HUMOROCJS RECITATIONS. 



C-R-0 and double S, with I-N-G to boot, 
Made ** crossing " jest as plain as Noah Webster 

dared to do't. 
"Railroad crossing ' ' — ^good enough ! — L double- 

0~K, ''look," 
And I wos lookin' all the time, and spellin' like 

a book. 

O-U-T spelt ''out " jest right ; and there it was, 

"look out," 
I's kinder cur'us, like, to know jest what 'twas 

all about ; 
F-O-R and T-H-E ; 'twas then "look out for 

the—" 
And then I tried the next word ; it commenced 

with E-N-G. 



I'd goc ihat ^ w" ^n suddintly there came an 

awful whack ; 
A thou -and fiery thunderbolts just scooped me 

off the track : 
The bosses went to Davy Jcnes, the wagon went 

to smash. 
And I was histed seven yards above the tallest ash. 

1 didn't come to life ag'in fur 'bout a day oi 

two ; 
But, though I'm crippled up a heap, I sorter 

struggled through ; 
It ain't the pain, nor 'tain't the loss o' that 'ere 

team of mine ; 
Butp stranger, how I'd like to know the rest of 

that 'ere sign ! Hezekiah Strong. 



THE FIRST CLIENT 



TOHN SMITH, a young attorney, just ad- 
•^l mitted to the bar, 

V^ Was solemn and sagacious as — as young 

attorneys are ; 
And a frown of deep abstraction held the seizin 

of his face — 
The result of contemplation of the rule in 
Shelley's case. 

One day in term-time Mr. Smith was sitting in 

the court. 
When some good men and true of the body of 

the county did on their oath report. 
That heretofore, to wit: upon the second day of 

May, 
A. D. 1895, about the hour of noon, in the 

county and State aforesaid, one Joseph 

Scroggs, late of said county, did then 

and there feloniously take, steal and 

carry away 

One bay horse, of the value of fifty dollars, 

more or less 
(The same then and there being of the property, 

goods and chattels of one Hezekiah Hess), 
Contrary to the statute in such case expressly 

made 



And provided ; and agcxnst the peace and 
dignity of the State wnerein the venue 
had been laid. 

Tne prisoner, Joseph Scroggs, was then arraigned 
upon this charge. 

And plead not guilty, and of this he threw him- 
self upon the country at large ; 

And said Joseph being poor, the court did grac- 
iously appoint 

Mr. Smith to defend him — much on the same 
principle that obtains m every charity 
hospital, where a young medical student 
is often set to rectify a serious injury to 
an organ or a joint. 

The witnesses seemed prejudiced against poor 
Mr. Scroggs ; 

And the District Attorney made a thrilling 
speech, in which he told the jury that ii 
they didn't find for the State he reckoned 
he'd have to "walk their logs ; " 

Then Mr. Smith arose and made his speech foi 
the defense. 

Wherein he quoted Shakesi^eare, Blackstone, 
Chitty, Archibold, Joaquin Miller, Story 
K-ent^ Tupper, Smedes and Marshall, an( 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



247 



many other writers, and everybody said 
they ' ' never heerd sich a bust of elo- 
quence." 

y^nd he said " On ^/tis hypothesis my client must 
go free ; ' ' 

And: ^ 'Again on t/iis hypothesis, it's morally 
impossible that he could be guilty, don't 
you see ? " 

And : ' ' Then, on ^/lis hypothesis, you really 
can't convict; " — 

And so on, with forty-six more hypotheses, upon 
none of which, Mr. Smith ably demon- 
strated, could Scroggs be derelict. 



But the jury, never stirring from the box wherein 

they sat. 
Returned a verdict of " guilty ; ' ' and his Honor 

straightway sentenced Scroggs to a three 
years term in the penitentiary, and ? 
heavy fine, and the costs on top of that ; 

And the prisoner, in wild delight, got up and 
danced and sung ; 

And when they asked him the reason of this 
strange behavior, he said : ''It's because 
I got off so easy — for if there' d ha' been 
a few more of them darned hypothesises, 
I should certainly have been hung ! " 

Irwin Russell. 



THE MOVEMENT CURE FOR RHEUMATISM. 



^JE day, not a great while ago, Mr. Mid- 
dlerib read in his favorite paper a para- 
graph copied from the Prceger Land- 
wirthschaftliches Wochenblatt, a German paper, 
which is an accepted authority on such points, 
stating that the sting of a bee was a sure cure for 
rheumatism, and citing several remarkable 
instances in which people had been perfectly 
cured by this abrupt remedy. Mr. Middlerib 
did not stop to reflect that a paper with such a 
name as that would be very apt to say anything ; 
he only thought of the rheumatic twinges that 
grappled his knees once in a while, and made 
life a burden to him. 

He read the article several times, and pondered 
over it. He understood that the stinging must 
be done scientifically and thoroughly. The 
bee, as he understood the article, was to be 
gripped by the ears and set down upon the rheu- 
matic joint, and held there until it stung itself 
stingless. He had some misgivings about the 
^natter. He knew it would hurt. He hardly 
thought it could hurt any worse than the rheu- 
matism, and it had been so many years since he 
was stung by a bee that he had almost forgotten 
what it felt like. He had, however, a general 
reeling that it would hurt some. But desperate 
diseases required desperate remedies, and Mr. 



Middlerib was willing to undergo any amount of 
suffering if it would cure his rheumatism. 

He contracted with Master Middlerib for a 
limited supply of bees. There were bees and 
bees, humming and buzzing about in the summer 
air, but Mr. Middlerib did not know how to get 
them. He felt, however, that he could depend 
upon the instincts and methods of boyhood. He 
knew that if there was any way in heaven or 
earth whereby the shyest bee that ever lifted a 
200-pound man off the clover, could be induced 
to enter a wide-mouthed glass bottle, his son 
knew that way. 

For the small sum of one dime Master Mid- 
dlerib agreed to procure several, to -wit : six 
bees, age not specified ; but as Mr. Middlerib 
was left in uncertainty as to the race, it was madf 
obligatory upon the contractor to have three ot 
them honey, and three humble, or in the genei 
ally accepted vernacular, bumble bees. Mr. 
Middlerib did not tell his son what he wanted 
those bees for, and the boy went off on his mis- ' 
sion, with his head so full of astonishment that^ 
it fairly whirled. Evening brings all home, and 
the last rays of the declining sun fell upon 
Master Middlerib with a short, wide-mouthed 
bottle comfortably populated with hot, ill- 
natured bees, and Mr. Middlerib and a dime. 



248 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



The dime and the bottle changed hands and the 
boy was happy. 

Mr. Middlerib put the bottle in his coat 
pocket and went into the house, eyeing every- 
body^ he met very suspiciously, as though he had 
made up his mind to sting to death the first 
person that said ** bee" to him. He confided 
his guilty secret to none of his family. He hid 
his bees in his bedroom, and as he looked at 
them just before putting them away, he half 
wished the experiment was safely over. He 
wished the imprisoned bees didn't look so hot 
and cross. With exquisite caie he submerged 
the bottle in a basin of water, and let a few 
drops in on the heated inmates, to coc»l them. off. 

At the tea table he had a great fight. Miss 
Middlerib, in the artless simplicity of her 
romantic nature said : ' * I smell bees. How the 
odor brings up ' ' 

But her father glared at her, and said, with 
superfluous harshness and execrable grammar : 

^' Hush up ! You don't smell nothing." 

Whereupon Mrs. Middlerib asked him if he 
had eaten anything that disagreed with him, and 
Miss Middlerib said: '*Why, pa!" and 
Master Middlerib smiled as he wondered. 

Bedtime came at last, and the night was warm 
and sultry. Under various false pretenses, Mr. 
Middlerib strolled about the house until every- 
body else was in bed, and then he sought his 
*"^om. He turned the night-lamp down until its 
teeble rays shone dimly as a death-light. 

Mr. Middlerib disrobed slowly — very slowly. 
When at last he was ready to go lumbering into 
his peaceful couch, he heaved a profound sigh, so 
full of apprehension and grief that Mrs. Middle- 
rib, who was awakened by it, said if it gave 
him so much pain to come to bed, perhaps he 
had better sit up all night. Mr. Middlerib 
checked another sigh, but said nothing and crept 
into bed. After lying still a few moments he 
reached out and got his bottle of bees. 

It was not an easy thing to do, to pick one 
bee out of a bottle full, with his fingers, and not 
get into trouble. The first bee Mr. Middlerib 
got was a little brown honeybee that wouldn't 



weigh half an ounce if you picked him up by 
the ears, but if you lifted him by the hind leg as 
Mr. Middlerib did, would weigh as much as 
the last end of a bay mule. Mr. Middlerib 
could not repress a groan. 

^'What's the matter with you?" sleepily 
asked his wife. 

It was very hard for Mr. Middlerib to say^ 
he only knew his temperature had risen to 86 
all over, and to 197 on the end of his thumb. 
He reversed the bee and pressed the warlike 
terminus of it firmly against his rheumatic knee. 

It didn't hurt so badly as he thought it would. 

It didn't hurt at all ! 

Then Mr. Middlerib remembered that when 
the honey-bee stabs a human foe it generally 
leaves its harpoon in the wound, and the invalid 
knew then the only thing the bee had to sting 
with was doing its work at the end of his thumb. 

He reached his arm out from under the sheet, 
and dropped this disabled atom of rheumatism 
liniment on the carpet. Then, after a second 
of blank wonder, he began to feel around for the 
bottle, and wished he knew what he had done 
with it. 

In the meantime, strange things had been 
going on. When he caught hold of the first bee, 
Mr. Middlerib, for reasons, drew it out in such 
haste that for the time he forgot all about the 
bottle and its remedial contents, and left it lying 
uncorked in the bed. In the darkness there had 
been a quiet but general emigration from thai 
bottle. The bees, their wings clogged with 
the water Mr. Middlerib had poured upon them 
to cool and tranquilize them, were crawling aim- 
lessly about over the sheet. While Mr. Middle- 
rib was feeling around for it, his ears were sud 
denly thrilled and his heart frozen by a wild, 
piercing scream from his wife. 

** Murder!" she screamed, ''murder! Oh, 
help me! Help! help! " 

Mr. Middlerib sat bolt upright in bed. His 
hair stood on end. The night was very warm, 
but he turned to ice in a minute. 

''Where, oh, where," he said, with alhd 
lips, as he felt all over the bed in frenzied haste 



ii'^&^i^^i^^msm 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



249 



— " where in the world are them infernal bees ? ' ' 

And a large ''bumble," with a sting as piti- 
less as the finger of scorn, just then lighted 
between Mr. Middlerib's shouldei-s, and went for 
his marrow, and said calmly : * ' Here is one of 
them." 

And Mrs. Middlerib felt ashamed of her 
feeble screams when Mr. Middlerib threw up 
both arms, and, with a howl that made the win- 
dows rattle, roared : 

''Take him off! Oh, land of Scott, some- 
body take him off ! " 

And when a httle honey-bee began tickling 
the sole of Mrs. Middlerib's foot, she shrieked 
that the house was bewitched, and immediately 
went into spasms. 

The household was aroused by this time. 
Miss Middlerib, and Master Middlerib and the 
servants were pouring into the room, adding to 
the general confusion, by howling at random 
and asking irrelevant questions, while they gazed 
at the figure of a man, a little on in years, paw- 



ing fiercely at the unattainable spot in the middle 
of his back, while he danced an unnatural, 
weird, wicked-looking jig by the dim religious 
light of the night lamp. 

And while he danced and howled, and while 
they gazed and shouted, a navy-blue wasp, that 
Master Middlerib had put in the bottle for good 
measure and variety , and to keep the menagerie 
stirred up, had dried his legs and wings with a 
corner of the sheet, after a preliminary circle or 
two around the bed, to get up his motion and 
settle down to a working gait, fired himself across 
the room, and to his dying day Mr. Middlerib 
will always believe that one of the servants mis- 
took him for a burglar, and shot him. 

No one, not even Mr. Mid'dlerib himself, 
could doubt that he was, at least for the time, 
most thoroughly cured of rheumatism. His own 
boy could not have carried himself more lightly 
or with greater agility. But the cure was not 
permanent, and Mr. Middlerib does not like to 
talk about it. Robert J. Burdette. 



SHE MEANT BUSINESS. 



HERE is no reason why the inventor of a 
remedy to ' ' cure the worst case of 
catarrh in five minutes" shouldn't feel it 
his duty to place a bottle of the same in every 
person's hand — "price, twenty-five cents; no 
cure, no pay." Therefore, the long-legged chap 
who pulled a door-bell on John R. Street yester- 
day had none of that timidity in his bearing 
which characterizes rag-buyers, lightning-rod 
men, and solicitors for the fire sufferers. He 
had a good thing, and he knew it, and he wanted 
other folks to know it. When the door opened 
and a hard-featured woman about forty years of 
age confronted him, he pleasantly went to busi- 
ness, and asked : 

"Madam, is your husband ever troubled with 
the cat?rrh?" 

"Can a man who has been dead sevyi vears be 
troubW with the catarrh?" she grimly rephed. 

"But he children are liable to be attacked at 
any hou ''.his season, ' ' he remarked. 



"Whose children?" 

"Yours, madam." 

"I never had any, sir! What brought you 
here, anyhow ? Why do you come asking these 
questions ? ' ' 

"Madam, I have compounded a remedy for 
the catarrh. It is a good thing. I'll warrant it 
to knock any case of catarrh sky-high in less 
than, five minutes. ' ' 

"Well, sir, what's all this to me? " 

"Why, madam — why — " he stammered. 

"Do I look as if 1 needed any catarrh reme- 
dies?" she demanded, as she stepped out on 
the platform. 

' ' Madam, I would not for the world have you 
think that I thought you had the catarrh, but I 
suppose the fair and lovely can be attacked, as 
well as the strong and brave. ' ' 

"And what have I got to do with all that 
rigmarole ? Who are you, sir, and what do you 
want ? ' ' 



250 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



'^ Madam," he whispered, backing down one 
step, '' I have compounded a remedy for the 
catarrh. ' ' 

«* Whose catarrh?" 

''Madam, I am selhng my catarrh — " 

''Where is your catarrh — where is it?" she 
interrupted. 

He go t down on the second step and softly began : 

"Madam, I have a sure cure for the catarrh, 
end I am selhng lots of it." 

"Well, what do I care? Must you ring my 
door-bell to tell me that you are selling lots of 
catarrh medicine? " 

He got down on the walk, clear of the steps, 
and he tried hard to look beautiful around the 
mouth as he explained : 

"Madam, didn't I ask you if your husband 
was ever troubled with catarrh ? ' ' 

"Yes, sir, and didn't I reply that he was 
dead ? Do you want to see his grave, sir ? " 

"No, madam, I do not. I am sorry he's 
dead, but my catarrh remedy can't help him any. 
Good -by, madam." 



"Here, sir, hold on a mmute ! " 
what was your business with me ! ' ' 

"Why, I have a remedy for the catarrh." 

"So you said before." 

"I asked you if you didn't want to purchase, 
and—" 

"You are a falsifier, sir, you never asked me 
to purchase ! ' ' 

want — a — bottle ? " he slowly 



you- 



"Do 

asked. 

''Yes, sir 
your money ! 



give me two of them: here's 
Next time you want to sell your 
catarrh remedy, don't begin to talk around about 
the discovery of America. Here you've bothered 
me fifteen minutes, and put all my work behind, 
and it's good for you I didn't bring the broom 
to the door ! " 

He retreated backward through the gate, his 
left eye squinted up and his mouth open. He 
shut the gate, leaned over it and looked long at 
the front door. By-and-by he said : 

' ' Well, well ! You can never tell where to 
find 'em." 



THE WIFE=HUNTING DEACON. 



fOOR Deacon Brown, in the prime of life 
Had buried his loved and loving wife ; 
x\ndwhat in the world could the deacon do 
With four small boys, and a baby, too ? 
Joseph and Jesse, Isaac and Paul — 
And non i but the deacon to do it all ? 
So he said to neighbor Jones one day. 
In a semi-serious kind of a way, 
"I'll tell you, Jones, I am sick, indeed, 
Of the lonely, humdrum life I lead ; 
If would brighten the gloom of my lonely life. 
If I only — well, if I had a wife ! 

And then, my friend, you are well aware 
That my poor little babes need a mother's care 
If I knew of a woman, kind and good. 
That would care for them as a mother should. 
Why, neighbor Jones, I would give my life. 
But where, oh ! where can I find a wife? 
There is widow Smith, but don't you see, 
She isn't the woman at all for me. 



I do not care for a pretty face, 
A lovely maid with a form of grace, 
But give me a woman of common sense, 
And not a miserable bill of expense — 
Hearty and rugged and ready to work. 
Never complaining nor trying to shirk ; 
One who can go, if the need demands. 
Out in the field with the harvest hands, 
And wouldn't consider it out of her place — 
Oh ! I wouldn't give much for a pretty face." 

"Well, Deacon," said Jones, with a comical 

sigh. 
While a bushel of fun twinkled right in his eye, 
"I know of a woman, you may depend, 
Who will make you a tip-top wife, my friend ; 
She lives in the border of Barrytown, 
And I'm sure she will suit you, Deacon Brown. 
She's not very handsome, but then, I suppose, 
That you don't care a cent for the length of het 

nose, 



Not yet for the cut of the lady's clothes. 

She ij always ready to do the chores, 

Or to ioik on her farm with the men out doors 

I When njlp is needed — you understand — 
Samanth.i. S\mpkins is right on hand." 
^'Indeed > *' said the deacon, in friendly tones, 
................ 

The very next Sunday Deacon Brown 

Drove in his cairiage to Barry town ; 

/Vnd you may be sure that the deacon dressed 

Jl g In his new plug hat and his Sunday best. 

51 W He had spent an hour dyeing his hair ; 

And he shaved his chin with the greatest care. 
^'For," he said to himself as he drove away. 
**We ought to dress w> 11 on the Sabbath day." 
The day was warm — it was rather late 
When he tied his horse at Samantha's gate. 

"This here is splendid ! " the deacon said 
As he cast a glance at the barn and shed. 
"The house looks neat, and the yard is clean, 
And the farm is the slickest that can be seen.'' 
And he wiped the sweat from his dripping brow. 
" Ah ! this is the woman for me, I trow ! " 
Then his heart beat hard, and he said no more. 
And he gently knocked at the parlor door. 
He heard a rush and a heavy tread — 
"I guess it's a man," the deacon said. 



RECITATIONS. 

Then the door was hastily opened wide — - 

And the frightened deacon stood beside 

A swarthy dame that was six feet two, 

Who sported neither boot nor shoe. 

She wore on her head a broad -brimmed hat. 

Old and battered and worn at that. 

Her nose was long, and her eyes were black, 

And her coarse, dark hair hung over her back. 

She had just come in from her well-kept farm., 
And ?ht carried a pitchfork under her arm. 
' ' I beg your parding ! ' ' continued he, 
"It is Miss Samantha I'd hke to see." 
"Wall," said Samantha—" that is me ! 
I presume you called to see the hay 
I offered for sale the other day. ' ' 
The deacon didn't know what to say. 
Or how in the world to get away. 

"Say, what do you want of me?" she cried. 

And she stepped right up to the deacon's side. 

"Nothing ! " said he with charming grace. 

Then she slammed the door in the deacon's face. 

The wonder is that he didn't fall, 

For he went through the gate like a cannon-ball ! 

And when, at last, he was safe from harm, 

A mile o:t so from the Simpkins farm. 

He said t^ himself, in smothered tones, 

" If ever again that wicked Jones 

Crosses my path, I'll break his bones ! " 

L. D. A. SUTTLE. 



HIS FLYING^MACHINE. 



i^vN enterprising saloon-keeper on Grand 
V^ River avenue is always on the lookout 
J for any novelty that may draw customeVs, 

and perhaps this fact may have been known to a 
bland-faced old man who entered the place the 
other day and confidentially began : 

" If I could draw a crowd of one hundred 
men to your place here, what sum would you be 
willing to give me? " 

^' What do you mean ? " asked the saloonist. 

" If it was known that I had in my possession 
a flying -machine and that it would fly from your 
door here on a certain day and hour wouldn't 



the novelty be sure to collect a thirsty crowd?" 
"Yes, I think so. If you have a flying- 
machine and want to show it off here to-morrow 
night, I'll give you a dollar, and if the machine 
is a success, perhaps I'll buy it." 

"Well, sir," continued the old man in a 
whisper, '.'I've got the boss ! She flies from the 
word go ! All I've got to do is to toss her into 
the air, and away she sails. It's right down fine 
— no chance for a failure. I'll be on hand at 
seven o'clock to-morrow night." 

The matter became noised about, and the next 
evening a crowd had collected around the saloon 



252 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



to witness the experiment. The old man arrived 
on time having some sort of a bundle under his 
arm He collected his dollar and several treats 
from the crowd. When everything was finally 
ready, he went out into the street a short distance 
from the eager spectators, and said : 

'^ Gentlemen, I warrant this thing to fly. 
I did not invent it myself, but I am now acting 
as State agent to dispose of county rights. Hun- 
dreds of men have spent years of anxious thought 
and thousands of dollars seeking to invent flying- 
machines, but this one leads them all. Please 



stand back and give her a chance to rise. One 
— two — three — all ready ! There she goes. ' ' 

The crowd fell back, and the man let fall the 
cover enclosing this wonderful invention and 
gave it a toss into the air. A dismal squawk 
was heard, an old spreckled hen sailed this way 
and that, bumped against a telegraph post and 
finally settled down on the roof of a low shed, 
cackling in an indignant manner at being turned 
loose in a strange neighborhood. 

The old man took advantage of their bewildei*- 
ment to make good his escape. 



MR, O'HOOLAHAN'S MISTAKE. 



/^N amusing scene occurred in Justice 
L^ Young's court-room an evening or tv/o 
/ since. Two sons of the "ould sod," 

full of ''chain- lightning " and law, rushed in, 
and, advancing to the justice's little law-pulpit 
at the rear of the court-room, both began talking 
at once. 

*' One at a time, if you please, ' ' said the judge. 

''Judge — yer — honor— will I sphake thin? " 
said one of the men. 

"Silence!'* roared his companion. "lam 
here ! Let me talk I Ph\,at do you know about 
law?"' 

"Keep still yourself, sir. ' said the judge. 
*'Let him say what he wants." 

"Well, I want me naime afl" the paiper. 
That's phwat I want," said the man. 

"Off what paper?" said the judge. 

"Well, aff the paiper: ye ought to know 
what paiper. Sure, ye married me, they say. ' ' 

"To whom ! " asked the judge. 

"Some female, sir; and I don't want her, 
sir. It don't go ! and I want me naime aff the 
paiper. ' ' 

"Silence!" roared the friend, bringing his 
huge fist down upon the little pulpit, just under 
the judge's nose, with a tremenous thwack. 
"Silence! I am here. Phwat do you know 
about law ? Sure, yer honor, it was Tim Mc- 
Closkey's wife that he married — his widdy, I 
mane. You married thim, yer honor," 



"And I was dhrunk at the time, sir. Yis^ 
sir; an' I was not a fre; aigent ; an' I don't 
know a thing about it, sir — do ve see? I want 
me naime aff the paiper — I repudiate, sir." 

"Silence! Let me spake. Phwat do you 
know about law ? ' ' bringing his fist down upon 
the judge's desk. 

"But I was dhrank ; I was not at the time a 
free aigent." 

"Silence! I am here to spake. It does not 
depind on that at all. It depinds — and there is 
the whole pint, both in law and equity — it 
depinds whether was the woman a sole thrader 
or not at the time this marriage was solemnated. 
That is the pint, both in law and equity ! " 

" But I was dhrunk at the time. Divil roawst 
me if I knowed I was gittin' married. I was not 
a free aigent. I want the judge to t^.\ me 
naime aff the paiper. It don't go." 

The judge tried to explain to the man that, 
drunk or sober, he was married to the woman 
fast enough, and, if he wanted a divorce, he 
must go to another court. 

"Burn me up ! " cried the man, " if I go to 
another court. Ye married me, and ye can 
unmarry me. Talk me naime aff the paiper ! ' ' 

' ' Silence ! ' ' cried the friend, bringing his 
fist down in close proximity to the judge's nose. 
' ' Phwat do you know about law ? I admit, 
judge, that he must go to a higher court ; that 
is (down comes the fist) i^ the woman can provr 



I 




PHOTO. EY MORRISON, CHICAGO 

NO DECEPTION, NOW ! 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



253 



(whack) that she was at the time the marriage 
was solemnated (whack) a regularly ordained 
sole thrader (whack). On this pint it depinds, 
iDoth in law and equity. ' ' 

''I have had enough of this!" cried the 
judge: "I cannot divorce you. You are 
married, and married you must remain, for all I 
can do." 

*^Ye won't taik me naime aff the paiper, 
thin?" 

*' It would not mend the matter," said the 
judge. 

^'Ye won't taik it aff ? " 

*' No : I won't ! " fairly yelled the judge. 

** Silence ! " cried the partner, bringing down 
his fist, and raising a cloud of dust under the 
judge's nose. ''It depinds whether, at the 
time, the woman was a regular sole — ^" 

V' Get out of here," cried the judge. " I've 
had enough of this ! " at the same time rising. 

" Ye won't taik it aff? Very well, thin,' I'll 
go hoam and devorce myself. I'll fire the 
thatch! I will—" 

Here he glanced toward the front d. or : his 
under jaw drooped, he ceased speaking, and in 
a half-stooping posture he went out of the back 
door of the office like a shot. 

The valiant friend and legal adviser also 
glanced toward the door, when he too, doubled 
up and scooted in the footsteps of his illustrious 
principal. 

A Ipok at the door showed it darkened by a 
woiTian about six feet in height, and so broad as 
to fill it almost from side to side. 



The judge took a look at this mountain of 
flesh, doubled up, and was about to take th(^ 
back track, but thought better of it, and tool, 
refuge behind his little law-pulpit. 

The mountain advanced, gave utterance in ; 
sort of internal rumble, and then, amid fiic 
smoke, and burning lava, belched out, — 

'' Did I, or did I not see Michael O'Hoolahan 
sneak out of your back doore ? ' ' 

'' I believe O'Hoolahan is the name of one of 
the gentlemen who just went out," said the 
judge. 

Advancing upon the pulpit^ behind which the 
judge settled lower -^iid lower, the mountain 
belched, — 

" You be-e-lave ! You -^/z^z^/ it was Michael 
O'Hoolahan ! Now, what is all this connivin' in 
here about ? Am I a widdy agin ? Did ye taik 
his naime aff the paiper? Did ye taik it aff ? " 

*' N-no," said the judge. 

''Ye didn't? Don't ye desave me ! " 

" No : I give you my word of honor I 4idn't, 
couldn't — I had no right." 

" It's well for ye didn't. I'll (:ache him tc 
be runnin' about connivin' to lave me a lont 
widdy agin', whin I'm makin' a jintleman ol 
him!" 

With this she sailed back to the door, where 
she turned, and, shaking her fist, thus addressed 
the tip of the judge's nose, which alone was 
visible above the little pulpit, — 

" Now, do ye mind that ye lave his naime on 
the paiper ! I want no meddlin' wid a man 
wanst I git him. No more connivin' ! " 



JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH. 



NE of the Kings of Scanderoon, 

A Royal Jester 
Had in his train, a gross buffoon, 
Who used to pester 
The Court with tricks inopportune, 
Venting on the highest folks his 
Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes. 

Tt needs some sense to play the fool, 
Which wholesome rule 



Occurred not to our jackanapes. 
Who consequently found his freaks 

Lead to innumerable scrapes, 

And quite as many kicks and tweaks, 

Which only seemed to make him faster 

Try the patience of his master. 

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure. 
Incurred the desperate displeasure 



!54 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



■ 



Of his serene and raging highness : 
Whether he twitched his most revered 
And sacred beard, 

Or had intruded on the shyness 

Of the Seragho, or let fly 

An epigram at royalty, 

None knows : — his sin was an occult one. 

But records tell us that the Sultan, 

Meaning to terrify the knave, 

Exclaimed — ^' 'Tis time to stop that breath ; 
Thy doom is sealed : — presumptuous slave ! 



Thou standest condemned to certain deztth 
Silence, base rebel ! — no replying ! — 
But such is my indulgence still, 
That of my own free grace and will, 
I leave to thee the mode of dying. ' ' 

'^ Thy royal will be done — 'tis just," 
Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust ; 

** Since, my last moments to assuage, 
Your Majesty's humane decree 
Has deigned to leave the choice to me, 

*^ I'll die, so please you, of old age ! " 
Horace Smith. 



LOVE UNDER DIFFICULTIES. 



MET a dear creature, it matters not where ; 
And I met with a fall too, in meeting the 
fair; 
For I fell quite in love — ^but you wouldn't blame 

me. 
If this beautiful creature you only could see. 
Her eyes were like — stay, they bewildered me 

quite ; 
No mortal could see them and criticise right. 
I could only observe that their number was two. 
And their color — about the most mischievous 
blue. 

Her mouth (my own waters) — don't ask me, 

I pray — 
'Twas the sweetest of mouths, and that's all I 

can say : 
And the envious fellow who dares to say i ' no, ' ' 
If he had dJiy taste, faith, he wouldn't say so ! 
Her mouth, when she laughed, was a casket 

thrown wide 
With pearls gleaming white from pink velvet 

inside ;. 



When she sang, 'twas a cage, which to shut were 

a sin ; 
While her tongue, like a httle bird, warbled 

within. 

Her hair, gathered up in a net with much care 
Peeped out from the bars of its prison up there, 
Ev'ry wave, ev'ry fold, seeming slily to say — 
*' Don't you think it's a shame to confine me 

this way ? ' 
For lightness, her foot was like that of a lamb ; 
For whiteness, her hand might have borne off 

the palm ; 
And kind was the heart that went beating below. 
To keep itself warm in her bosom of snow. 
The next time I met my dear charmer, thought I, 
'*ril disclose to her father the truth, or I die. 
*' Introduce me," I said, ''to your worthy old 

sire, 
The grey, spectacled gentleman next to the fire." 
She replied with surprise, and a mixture of glee: 
''That old gentleman there — is my husband! *' 

said she. 




R. BOWSER doesn't intend to let sick- 
ness or death get ahead of us as a 
family if any effort of his can pre- 
vent, and he is always doing the right thing in 
the nick of time. One day he came home an 
hour ahead of time, his countenance wearing a 
very important look, and the first thing he did 




MR. BOWSER TAKES PRECAUTIONS. 

was to bolt upstairs to our bedroom and lower 
the window, although I had just closed it after 
airing the room for two hours. He then came 
clattering down to ask me for a pan. 

' ' What on earth do you want of a pan ? " I 
asked. 

"To save all our lives, ^' he answered. 



J 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



255 



"Your bedroom is full of poisonous gases, which 
must be absorbed by an open vessel of water. ' ' 

"Nonsense ! " 

"I expected it. That's the weapon of the 
ignorant ! Mrs. Bowser, if you. want to die by 
poisonous gases poisoning the blood I have noth- 
ing to say, but I shall save the life of our child, 
if possible. I have felt a strange lassitude for 
several days, and a sanitary plumber tells me 
that we have poisoned air in the room. ' ' 

"Your lassitude couldn't have come from 
being out to club and lodge four successive 
nights until twelve o'clock, could it? " 

He seized the pan and hurried upstairs, and 
when he had filled it at the lavatory he set it in 
the middle of the floor and came down with a 
relieved look on his face, to say: "See if you 
don't feel better to-morrow than you have for a 
month. It's a wonder we are not all dead." 

" Did the ancients know about these poisonous 
gases ? " I asked. 

"Not a thing. They nevei gave them a 
thought. ' ' 

"And yet the average of health was seventeen 
per cent, above that of to-day, and the average 
of mortality that much lower ! How do you 
account for it ? " 

"Oh, well, if you want to die, go ahead. I'll 
even buy a rope and help you to hang yourself. 
I expected this of course, but ridicule never 
moves me, Mrs. Bowser, never ! ' ' 

Two hours later he went upstairs in his slip- 
pers to look for a paper in another coat, and, of 
course, he set foot plump down in that pan of 
water. There was a yell and a jump, and over 
went the pan, and when I got up there he stood 
holding up one leg, as you have seen a hen do 
on a wet day. What I said on that occasion 
kept Mr. Bowser very quiet for a whole week. 

Then he began to grow restless again, and one 
night he brought home a suspicious-looking 
package and sneaked it upstairs. After supper 
he suddenly disappeared, and when I looked for 
him upstairs he had something in a basin and 
was about to hold it over a gasburner. 



"Mr. Bo>vser have you got a new theory!'" 
I asked. 

"Look here, Mrs. Bowser," he replied, as he 
put down the basin, ' ' you have heard of bacteria, 
I presume?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"They aic ihe germs of disease floating about. 
They are alive. If inhaled, cholera, yellow 
fever and other dread diseases are the result. 
Fumigation kills them. ' ' 

"And you are going to fumigate this room?" 

"I am. I am going to kill off the dreaded 
bacteria. ' ' 

"Well, you'll drive us out of the house or 
kill us." 

I went downstairs and he burned a compound 
of tar and sulphur. In ten minutes we had to 
open doors and windows, and the cook came 
running in to ask : 

"Is it cremation Mr. Bowser is trying on 
us?" 

"I am simply driving out the bacteria," he 
replied, coming downstairs at that moment. 

"And there's bacteria in the house?" she 
gasped. 

"I'm afraid so." 

"And I've worked here for weeks under the 
noses of the dreadful creatures ! Mr. Bowser I 
quits. I quits now ! " 

And quit she did. We had to sleep on the 
sitting-room floor last night, and three weeks 
later every caller could still detect that odor. 
It was hardly gone, however, when Mr. Bowser 
began to sniff around again. 

"Any more bacteria?" I asked. 

" Mrs. Bowser, if you want to sit here and die 
I have no objections, but I don't propose to 
neglect common sense precautions to preserve 
my own health. ' ' 

" Is anything wrong now?" 

"I think so. I think I can detect an odoi 
of sewer gas in the house." 

"Impossible! I shall have no more stuh 
burned until I know it is necessary ! ' ' 

"Wont you? If there is sewer gas here it 
must be eradicated at once.'' 



256 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



For the next week the entire house smelled of 
chloride of Kme until one could hardly draw a 
long breath, but Mr. Bowser was not satisfied. 

' ' I have been thinking, ' ' he said to me one 
evening, "that I may bring the germs of some 
terrible disease home in my clothes. I ride on 
the cars, you know, and I ought to take pre- 
cautions. ' ' 
How?" 

'* Carry a disinfectant about me to repel the 
'^erms. ' ' 

It might be a good idea." 

"Now you are talking sense. Now you seem 
to understand the peril which has menaced us. ' ' 

He got something down town the next day. 
I think some of his friends put up a job on him, 
knowing his craze. It was a compound which 
left him alone on the street car before he had 
ridden three blocks, and he had no sooner got 
into the house than we had to retire to the back 



doors. The cook got a sniff of it, and down 
went the dinner and up went her handr, and she 
shouted at Mr. Bowser: 

"A man as will keep skunks under his house 
would beat me out of my wages, and I'll be 
going this mmute." 

It took soap and water and perfumery and 
half a day's time to remove the odor, and when 
I declared that it was the last straw, Mr. Bowsei 
crossed his hands under his coat tails and replied : 

' ' Mrs. Bowser, I believe this house to be clear 
of bacteria, owing to my prudence and self- 
sacrifice, and I want it kept so." 

"I suppose I got 'em here! " I said coldly. 

"Without a doubt, madam ! " 

"And all this rumpus has been on »my ac" 
count?" 

"Exactly. But don't go too far with me' 
Enough is enough. You must stop right where 
you are. I have humored you all I propose to.'* 



HE WORRIED ABOUT IT. 



i( 



HE sun's heat will give out in ten mil- 
lion years more," 

And he worried about it ; 
" It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before," ' 

And he worried about it ; 
It would surely give out, so the scientists said 
In all scientific books that he read, 
/ ^d the whole mighty universe then would be 
-lead, 

And he worried about it ; 

^'And some day the earth will fall into the sun," 
And he worried about it ; 

''* Just as sure, and as straight, as if shot from a 
gun, 

And he worried about it ; 

" When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps 

Just picture, ' ' he said, ' ' what a fearful collapse ! 

It will come in a few million ages, perhaps, ' ' 
And he worried about it ; 

*' The earth will become much too small for the 
race/' 



And he worried about it ; 
" When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure 
space, ' ' 

And he worried about it ; 
"The earth will be crowded so much, without 

doubt. 
That there'll be no room for one's tongue ta 

stick out. 
And no room for one's thoughts to wander 
about, ' ' 

And he worried about it ; 

" The Gulf Stream will curve, and New England 
grow torrider," 

And he worried about it ; 
"Than was ever the climate of southernmost 
Florida, ' ' 

And he worried about it. 
' ' The ice crop will be knocked into small smith 

ereens, 
And crocodiles block up our mowing machines, 
And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and 
beans, ' ' 

And he worried about it. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



257 



^'And in less than ten thousand years, there's no 
doubt," 

And he worried about it ; 
•' Our supply of lumber and coal will give out," 

And he worried about it ; 
-' Just then the Ice Age will return cold and raw, 
Frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched 

in awe, 
As 4^ vainly beseeching a general thaw," 

And he worried about it. 



His wife took in washing (a dollar a day) , 

He didn't worry about it ; 
His daughter sewed shirts, the rude grocer tc 

pay, 

He didn't worry about it ; 
While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub 
On the washboard drum in her old wooden tub 
He sat by the stove and he just let her rub. 

He didn't worry about it. 
Lyman Abbott. 



JACK HOPKINS' STORY. 



a 



OES Mr. Sawyer live here?" said Mr. 
Pickwick, when the door was opened. 
" Yes," said the girl, *' first floor. 
It's the door straight afore you, when you gets 
to the top of the stairs. ' ' 

Having given this instruction, the handmaid 
disappeared with the candle in her hand, down 
the kitchen stairs, perfectly satisfied that she had 
done everything that could possibly be required 
of her under the circumstances. 

Mr. Snodgrass, who entered last, secured the 
street door, after several ineffectual efforts, by 
putting up the chain ; and the friends stumbled 
up stairs, where they were received by Mr. Bob 
Sawyer. ''How are you?" said the student, 
'* Glad to see you — take care of the glasses." 
This caution was addressed to Mr. Pickwick, 
who had put his hat in the tray. 

*' Dear me," said Mr. Pickwick, *' I beg your 
pardon." 

** Don't mention it, don't mention it," said 
Bob Sawyer, ''I'm rather confined for room 
here, but you must put up with all that, when 
you come to see a young bachelor. Walk in. 
You've seen this gentleman before, I think?" 
Mr. Pickwick shook hands with Mr. Benjamin 
\llen and his friends followed his example, 
fhey had scarcely taken their seats when there 
7as another double knock. 

"I hope that's Jack Hopkins !" said Mr. Bob 
Sawyer, "Hush. Yes it is. Come up. Jack; 
come up." 

A heavy footstep was heard upon the stairs, and 
17 



Jack Hopkins presented himself. He wore a 
black velvet waistcoat, with thunder-and-lighten- 
ing buttons; and blue striped shirt, with a white 
false collar. 

"You're late. Jack?" said Mr. Benjamin 
Allen. 

"Been detained at Bartholomew's," replied 
Hopkins. 

" Anything new ?' ' 

" No, nothing in particular. Rather a gooc 
accident brought into the casualty ward." 

" What was that, sir?" inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

" Only a man fallen out of a four pair of stairs* 
window; but it's a very fair case — ^very fail 
case indeed." 

' ' Do you mean that the patient is in a fair 
way to recover ? ' ' inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

"No," replied Hopkins, carelessly. "No, I 
should rather say he wouldn't. There must be 
a splendid operation though to-morrow — mag- 
nificent sight if Slasher does it." 

"You consider Mr. Slashe/a good operator?'* 
said Mr. Pickwick. 

"Best alive," replied Hopkins. "Took a 
boy's leg out of the socket last week — boy ate 
five apples and a gingerbread cake — exactly two 
minutes after it was all over, boy said he wouldn't 
lie there to be made game of; and he'd tell his 
mother if they didn't begin." 

"Dear me!" said Mr. Pickwick, astonished. 

" Pooh! that's nothing, that ain't," said Jack 
Hopkins, "Is it Bob?" 

"Nothing at all," replied Mr. Bob Sawyer. 



258 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



'* By-the-bye, Bob," said Hopkins with 
scarcely a perceptible glance at Mr. Pickwick's 
attentive face, **we had a curious accident last 
night. A child was brought in who had swal- 
lowed a necklace. ' ' 

** Swallowed what, sir?" interrupted Mr. 
Pickwick. 

*'A necklace," replied Jack Hopkins. ''Not 
all at once, you know, that would be too much — 
you couldn't swallow that, if the child did — eh, 
Mr. Pickwick, ha ! ha ! " Mr. Hopkins appeared 
highly gratified with his own pleasantry; and 
continued — ** No the way was this ; — child's 
parents were poor people who lived in a court. 
Child's eldest sister bought a necklace — com- 
mon necklace, made of large black wooden beads. 
Child being fond of toys, cribbed the necklace, 
hid it, played with it, cut the string, and swal- 
lowed a bead. Child thought it capital fun, 
went back next day, and swallowed another 
bead." 

''Bless my heart," said Mr. Pickwick, "what 
a dreadful thing ! I beg your pardon, sir. Go 
on." 

"Next day, child swallowed two beads; the 
day after that, he treated himself to three, and 
so on, till in a week's time, he had got through 
the necklace — five-and-twenty beads in all. 
The sister, who was an industrious girl, and sel- 
dom treated herself to a bit of finery, cried her 
eyes out, at the loss of the necklace ; looked 
high and low for it; but I needn't say, didn't 
find it. A few days afterwards, the family were 
at dinner — ^baked shoulder of mutton, and pota- 



toes under it — the child, who wasn't hungry 
was playing about the room, when suddenly 
there was heard a noise like a small hail-storm. 
'Don't do that, my boy,' said the father, '1 
ain't a doin' nothing,' said the child. 'Well, 
don't do it again,' said the father. 

"There was a short silence, and then the noise 
began again, worse than ever. 'If you don't 
mind what I say, my boy,' said the father, 'you'll 
find yourself in bed, in something less than a 
pig's whisper.' He gave the child a shake to 
make him obedient, and such rattling ensued as 
nobody ever heard before. 'Why, it's in the 
child!' said the father, 'he's got the croup in 
the wrong place! ' 'No, I haven't, father,' said 
the child beginning to cry, 'it's the necklace: 
I swallowed it, father.' The father caught the 
child up, and ran with him to the hospital : the 
beads in the boy's stomach rattling all the way 
with the jolting ; and the people looking up in 
the air, and down in the cellars, to see where the 
unusual sound came from. He's in the hospital 
now, and he makes so much noise when he walks 
about, that they*re obliged to muffle him in a 
watchman's coat^ for fear he should wake the 
patients. ' ' 

"That's the most extraordinary case I ever 
heard of, ' ' said Mr. Pickwick, with an emphatic 
blow on the table. 

"Very singular things occur in our profession, 
I can assure you," said Jack Hopkins. 

"So I should imagine," replied Mr. Pick- 
wick. 

Charles Dickens. 



THE WIDOW O'SHANE'S RINT. 



W 



HISHT there! Mary Murphy, doan think 
. me insane, 
But I'm dyin' ter tell ye of Widder 
O' Shane: 
She as lives in the attic nixt mine, doan ye know 
An* does the foine washin' fer ould Misther 
Shnow. 

Wid niver a chick nor a child ter track in, 
Her kitchen is always as nate as a pin; 



An' her cap an' her apron is always that clane— 
Och, a moighty foine gurrel is the Widdei 
O' Shane. 



An' wud ye belave me, on Saturday night 
We heard a rough stip comin' over our flight ; 
An' Mike, me ould man, he jist hollered to me, 
"Look out av the door an' see who it moight 
be." 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



259 



An' I looked, Mary Murphy, an' save me if there 
Wasn't Thomas Mahone on the uppermost stair, 
(He's the landlord ; ye're seen him yerself, ^\dd 

a cane), 
fm' he knocked on the door of the Widder 

O' Shane. 

All' I whispered to Michael, " Now what can it 

mane 
That his worship is calling on Widder O' Shane?" 
Rint day comes a Friday wid us, doan you see, 
So I knew that it wusn't collectin' he'd be. 

"It must be she owes him some money for rint. 
Though the neighbors do say that she pays to 

the cint ; 
Vou take care of the baby, Michael Brady," 

says I, 
"An* I'll pape through the keyhole, I will, if I 

die." 

The howly saints bliss me ! what shuldn't I see 
But the Widder O' Shane sittin' pourin' the tea; 
An' the landlord wus there, Misther Thomas 

Mahone, 
A sittin' one side ov the table alone. 



An' he looked at the Widder C Shane, an* sez 

he, 
**It's a privilege great that ye offer ter me ; 
Fer I've not once sat down by a fair woman*s 

side 
Since I sat down by her that I once called me 

bride. 

*'An' is it ye're poor now, Widder O'Shane; 
Ye're a dacent woman, both tidy and clane; 
An' we're both av us here in the wurruld alone, 
Wud ye think of unitin' wid Thomas Mahone?" 

Then the AVidder O'Shane put the tea kettle 

do^vn. 
An' she says, *' Misther Thomas, your name is a 

crown ; 
I take it most gladly " — an' then me ould man 
Hollered, ** Bridget, cum in here, quick as yer 

can." 

So then Mary Murphy, I riz off that floor, 
An' run into me attic an' bolted the door ; 
An' I sez to me Michael, **Now isn't it mane? 
She'll have no rint to pay, will that Widder 
O'Shane." 



THE WOMAN NEXT DOOR. 



¥017 all know her. She it is who pokes 
her head out of the window every time 
your bell rings, and never knows who 
threw the dead cat over into your yard. 

She is the Khedive who secures a reserved 
seat at the knot-hole in the fence and lets her 
neighbor know what the rest of the neighbor- 
hood had for dinner. She sets her ash barrel, 
invariably, several inches past her party line, so 
it scourges over your sidewalk. 

She has something less than a million children 
and they make a play ground of your front stoop 
and use their own as a front parlor. They look 
upon your front gate as their own personal prop- 
erty and swing on it until they break the hinges. 
They pick your choicest flowers and leave their 
carts and hobby horses in your pathway. 



She cooks cabbage three or four times a week 
and gives you the benefit by throwing open all 
the windows. She always beats her carpets on 
wash-day and makes your shirt fronts look as 
though they were ironed with a brick. 

The children begin playing foot-ball next to 
your bedroom just about bed-time and don't 
finish the game until after midnight, and then 
wake up in the morning quarreling about who 
won the game. They have at least a dozen pet 
cats that fight their battles nightly under your 
chamber window until you haven't a bootjack, 
shoe brush, or any other get-at-able within your 
reach ; and their watchdog sits on your front 
steps and barks and howls alternately from early 
evening until daylight. 

When a new family moves into the neighbor 



^ 260 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



hood, she sits by the closed blinds and takes an 
inventory of the furniture and reports to her 
chosen friends in the block the result of her in- 
vestigations. In the winter she sees that her 
snow is shoveled onto your side walk and chokes 
up your gutter until it gets red in the face. 

She runs from one to the other with all the 
choice bits of gossip she can pick up and man- 



ages to keep the whole neighborhood in a very 
active state of fermentation. 

A funeral is a picnic to her, and she swaps 
comments on the appearance of the coffin and 
the mourners over the front balcony. When her 
funeral day comes around, there isn't water 
enough in the neighborhood to get up a good 
sized weep. 



THE SPOOPENDYKES. 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN TAKES EXERCISE ON A BICYCLE. 



^'PJ hurryi 

C you'll 



my dear, ' ' said Mr. Spoopendyke, 
hurrying up to his wife's room, **If 
come down in the yard I've 
got a pleasant surprise for you." 

** What is it?" asked Mrs. Spoopendyke, 
*'what have you got, a horse ? " 

** Guess again," grinned Mr. Spoopendyke. 
** It's something like a horse." 

** I know ! It's a new parlor carpet. That's 
what it is ! " 

**No, it isn't, either. I said it's something 
like a horse ; that is, it goes when you make it. 
Guess again." 

*^ Is it paint for the kichen walls ? * ' asked 
Mrs. Spoopendyke, innocently. 

"No, it ain't and it ain't a hogshead of stove 
blacking, nor a set of dining-room furniture, nor 
it ain't seven gross of stationary wash tubs. 
Now guess again. ' ' 

* ' Then it must be some lace curtains for the 
sitting-room windows. Isn' t that just splendid ? ' ' 
and Mrs. Spoopendyke patted her husband on 
both cheeks and danced up and down with 
delight. 

**It's a bicycle, that's what it is!" growled 
Mr. Spoopendyke. **I bought it for exercise and 
I'm going to ride it. Come down and see me." 

*<Well, ain't I glad," ejaculated Mrs. Spoop- 
endyke. '*You ought to have more exercise, if 
there's exercise in anything, it's in a bicycle. 
Do let's see it ! " 

Mr. Spoopendyke conducted his wife to the 
yard and descanted at length on the merits of 
the machine. 



**In a few weeks I'll be able to make a mile 
a minute," he said, as he steadied the apparatus 
against the clothes post and prepared to mount. 
"Now you watch me go to the end of this path. '* 

He got a foot into one treadle and went head 
first into a flower patch, the machine on top, 
with a prodigious crash. 

"Hadn't you better tie it up to the post until 
you get on ? " suggested Mrs. Spoopendyke. 

"Leave me alone, will ye?" demanded Mr. 
Spoopendyke, struggling to an even keel. "I'm 
doing most of this myself. Now you hold on 
and keep your mouth shut. It takes a little prac^ 
tice, that's all." 

Mr. Spoopendyke mounted again and scuttled 
along four or five feet and flopped over on the 
grass plat. 

"That's splendid!" commended his wife. 
"You've got the idea already. Let me hold it 
for you this time. ' ' 

"If you've got any extra strength you hold 
your tongue, will ye ? " growled Mr. Spoopeux 
dyke. "It don't want any holding. It ain'l 
alive. Stand back and give me room, now. ' ' 

The third trial Mr. Spoopendyke ambled to 
the end of the path and went down all in a heap 
among the flower pots. 

"That's just too lovely for anything ! " pro- 
claimed Mrs. Spoopendyke. "You made more'p 
a mile a minute, that time. ' ' 

"Come and take it off!" roared Mr. Spoop- 
endyke. "Help me up ! Blast the bicycle ! " 
and the worthy gentleman struggled and 
plunged around like a whale in shallow water. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



261 



Mrs. Spoopendyke assisted in righting him 
and brushed him off. 

**I know where you make your mistake, " said 
she. *'The Uttle wheel ought to go first, like a 
buggy. Try it that way going back. ' ' 

<* Maybe you can ride this bicycle better than 
'' can," howled Mr. Spoopendyke. ''You know 
all about wheels ! What you need now is a 
lantern in your mouth and ten minutes behind 
time to be the City Hall clock ! If you had a 
bucket of water and a handle you'd make a 
steam grind-stone ! Don't you see the big wheel 
has got to go first ? ' * 

'' Yes, dear, murmured Mrs. Spoopendyke, 
*'but I thought if you practiced with the little 
wheel at first, you wouldn't have so far to 
fall." 

''Who fell?" demanded Mr. Spoopendyke. 
"Didn't you see me step off? I tripped, that' 3 
all. Now you just watch me go back. ' ' 

Once more Mr. Spoopendyke started in, but 
the big wheel turned around and looked him in 
the face, and then began to stagger. 

"Look out ! " squealed Mrs. Spoopendyke. 

Mr. Spoopendyke wrenched away and kicked 



and struggled, but it was of no avail. Down he 
came, and the bicycle was a hopeless wreck. 

"What'd ye want to yell for ! " he shrieked. 
"Couldn't ye keep your measly mouth shut? 
What'd ye think ye are, anyhow, a fog horn? 
Dod gast the measly bicycle 1 * ' and Mr. Spoop- 
end3^ke hit it a kick that folded it up like a bolt 
of muslin. 

"Never mind, my dear," consoled Mrs. 
Spoopendyke, "I'm afraid the exercise was too 
violent anyway, and I'm rather glad you 
broke it." 

"I s'pose so," snorted Mr. Spoopendyke. 
"There's sixty dollars gone." 

"Don't worry love. I'll go without the 
carpet and curtains, and the paint will do well 
enough in the kitchen. Let me rub you with 
arnica. ' ' 

But Mr. Spooyendyke was too deeply grieved 
by his wife's conduct to accept any office at her 
hands, preferring to punish her by letting his 
wounds smart rather than get well, and thereby 
relieve her of any anxiety she brought on herself 
b> dcting so outrageoieiy under the circum- 
stances. 



A SMOOTH DAY. 



W 



E walked along tv»dt slippery street, 

Malinda Ann and I ; 
Of all the thousands that we'd meet 
None were so blest as I. 
Her ringing laugh was very smooth ; 

No smoother had I known. 
And I was slicked up in my best — 
The slickest man in town. 



Smooth was the way of life to me 

As we walked smoothly on ; 
Her gentle fingers grasped my arm— 

I thought I weighed a tpn. 
So gentle did we glide along 

I hardly marked the way ; 
Her tones were polished and refined- 

Our conversation gay. 



They said we were a happy pair, 

So full of life and youth, 
Whose path through all the years to comr 

Should be most smoothly smooth. 
I never made a slip of tongue 

In all I had to say ; 
My feet seemed light as if they wore 

Light slippers on that day. 



I fondly gazed on that smooth cheek 

With smoothly glancing eyes. 
And wished my hopes would not slip up 

Of making her my prize. 
How proudly did I walk along 

As one of higher birth 
Until I struck a patch of ice 

And then I left the earth — 



i» 



262 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



Just for one second. Had I stayed 

In space all had been well : 
I had slipped up and must come down, 

And thus, of course, I fell. 
Oh, slipperiest slide that ever was ! 

'Twas a fell stroke to me; 
The gentle maiden shared my fate. 

For also down came she. 



Oh, slippery day, slip off my mind ! 

Slide, glide from memory ! 
Fade, fade into oblivion 

And no more torture me ! 
That day saw all my fond hopes slip, 

And all my gladness glide, 
Because that maiden madly rose 

And — well, she let me slide. 

Joe Tot, Jr. 



THE COW AND THE BISHOP. 

lA taking humorous recitation when weU acted.] 



^^^NCE, in a good old college town, 
\^J Where learned doctors in cap and gown 
Taught unfledged theologues how to 
preach, — 
Youths of many a land and speech, — 
There was a student, studious ever. 
Whom fellows and townsfolk counted clever , 
Despite red hair and an awkward gait, 
* * He' U be a great man, ' * they said, * * just wait ! ' ' 

So it chanced, on a chill September day, 

When the wind was sharp and the sky was gray. 

This student, deep in a study brown, 

Was striding along on the edge of the town. 

A tiny cottage he neared and passed 

When the sound of footsteps approaching fast 

And his own name called, as in urgent need, 

Made him abruptly slacken his speed. 

As he turned, a woman had reached his side. 

**0h, sir! you are learned and good, " she cried, 
** And my cow is dying, my own cow Pink ; 
There's nothing she'll eat and nothing she'll 

drink ; 
She seems to be moaning her life away ; — 
Oh, lose not a moment, but come, I pray ! '* 

*'Good madam," said he, with a puckered brow, 
**My knowledge, I fear, would not help your 

cow. 
On cattle diseases I'm all unread, — 
You'd better consult a physician instead." 



**Why, sir," said the woman, with pleading 

eyes, 
"They told me you were uncommonly wise, 
And for hours I've waited and watched for you, 
In hopes you would pass, as you often do." 

So the student suffered himself to be led 
To the poor old cow, in the rickety shed. 
And he thought as he looked her carefully over, 
* * How I wish you were out among the clover 1 
But I must do something, right or wrong, . 
Better than all this talk prolong. ' ' 

Now this quiet student loved a joke 

As well as any merrier folk ; 

So, pausing a moment, as if in doubt. 

He traced a circle the cow about, 

Which thrice he reversed, with measured tread. 

Stopping thrice at the creature's head. 

While with solemn face, besuiting the time, 
Thrice he intoned this impromptu rhyme : 
**Here a suffering animal lies, 

Faithful, trusty and true ; 
If she lives, she lives, — if she dies, £^e dies; 
And nothing more can I do." 

Then he said, in a tone of an ardent lover, 
*' I heartily trust this cow will recover! " 
While the woman, watching with wide-open eyes 
And awe-struck face, was dumb with surprise ; 
Till the student, with, ''Madam, a very good 

day!" 
Was out of the shed, up the road, and away. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



263 



Had the woman heard the laugh ring out 
When the story was told that night, no doubt 
Her faith in the charm she would hardly have 

kept ; 
But, hearing naught, she believed, and slept. 

Years afterward in that same town 

There lived a bishop of much renown ; 

Wise theologians spoke his fame. 

And the little children loved his name. 

But one sad day the bishop fell ill. 

And the news spread broad, as such news will ; 

One said to another, with tear or sigh, — 

** Nothing can save him — our bishop must die!" 

In his sunlit chamber, smiling and calm 
As a child unconscious of aught to harm. 
The sufferer waited with heart of peace, — 
Patiently waited for Death's release. 
The fearful swelling that stopped his speech 
The skill of doctors could not reach, 
And now it is sucking his breath away, 
And the shadows are falling, still and gray. 

Of a sudden, a voice outside was heard 
And the sick man's memory strangely stirred 
As a woman entered, bent and old. 
Making her way with assurance bold. 
She paused a moment, then stooping low. 
She marked a circle, with finger slow, 
Across the carpet, around th^ bed, 
From head to foot, and from foot to head; 
And then, in the circle she had traced 
She hobbled around with eager haste ; 
And why, 'mid servitors strong and stout, 
Did nobody venture to put her out ? 
Ah, why, no man of them ever could tell. 
But each seemed holden, as by a spell, — 



While the woman, in voice now high, now low. 
Sang the student's rhyme of long ago: 
*'Here a suffering animal lies. 

Faithful, trusty and true; 
If he lives, he lives, — if he dies, he dies ; 
And nothing more can I do ! " 
Then she piped, in the tone of an old ciacked 

bell, 
**I hope the bishop will soon get well ! ** 

But the words her lips had scarcely left 

When the air with a quick, sharp cry was cleft, — 

It rang through the chamber, it rang through the 

hall. 
Up sprang the attendants, one and all; 
They stared at the sick man, perplexed, amazed — 
Was the dying bishop suddenly crazed ? 
He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. 
And, wonder of wonders, — **He speaks! he 

speaks ! ' ' 
Ah, the woman had reached with her charm and 

crutch 
What the surgeon's lancet failed to touch ! 
*' The swelling is broken ! ' ' the doctors avowed^ 
As they clustered together, a joyous crowd. 

In a tiny cot on the edge of the town 
A little old woman, in kerchief and gown. 
Recounts, for the hundredth time, the tale 
Which never to her grows old or stale. 
With many a flourish of withered arm. 
Of the cow, the bishop, and potent charm. 
"To think," she says to the aged crones, 
*' At last I can rest my poor old bones. 
And never a thought to the future give. 
But know that in plenty I ever shall live ! 
A wonderful man, you must allow ; — 
God bless the bishop, and my new cow ! ** 

George Alfred Townsend, 



KATE. 



^HERE'S something in the name of Kate 

Which many will condemn ; 
But listen, now, while I relate 

The traits of some of them. 



There's Deli-Kate, a modest dame. 
And worthy of your love ; 

She's nice and beautiful in franae.^ 
As gentle as a dove. 



264 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



Communi-Kate's intelligent, 
As we may well suppose ; 

Her faithful mind is ever bent 
On telling what she knows. 

There's Intri-Kate, she's so obscure" 
'Tis hard to find her out ; 

For she is often very sure 
To put your wits to rout. 

Pre vari- Kate's a stubborn maid, 
She's sure to have her way; 

The cavilling, contrary jade 
Objects to all you say. 

There's Alter-Kate, a perfect pest, 

Much given to dispute ; 
Her pattering tongue can never rest, 

You cannot her refute. 

There's Dislo-Kate, in quite a fret, 
Who fails to gain her point ; 



Her case is quite unfortunate. 
And sorely out of joint. 

Equivo-Kate no one will woo ; 

The thing would be absurd, 
She is so faithless and untrue, 

You cannot take her word. 

There's Vindi-Kate, she's good and cm%t» 
And strives with all her might 

Her duty faithfully to do, 
And battle for the right. 



There's Rusti-Kate, a country lasF 
Quite fond of rural scenes ; 

She likes to trample through the 
And loves the evergreens. 

Of all the maidens you can find. 
There's none like Edu-Kate ; 

Because she elevates the mind 
And aims at somothing great 



SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. 



U 



'VE done now," said Sam, with slight 
embarrassment ; ** I've been a writin'." 
''So I see," rephed Mr. Weller. 
*'Not to any young 'ooman, I hope, Sammy." 

"Why, it's no use a sayin' it ain't," replied 
Sam. ** It's a valentine." 

** A what ? ' ' exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently 
horror-stricken by the word. 

**A valentine," replied Sam. 

"Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in 
reproachful accents, *'I didn't think you'd ha' 
done it. Arter the warnin' you've had o' your 
father's wicious propensities; after all I've said 
to you upon this here wery subject ; after 
actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o' 
your own mother-in-law, vich I should ha' 
thought was a moral lesson as no man could ever 
ha' forgotten to his dyin' day ! I didn't think 
you'd ha' done it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd 
ha' done it." These reflections were too much 
for the good old man ; he raised Sam's tumbler 
tQ his lips and drank off the contents. 



''Wot's the matter now? " said Sam. 

*'Nev'r mind, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, 
''it'll be a wery agonizin' trial to me at my 
time o' life, but I'm pretty tough, that's vun 
consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked ven 
the farmer said he vos afreed he should be 
obliged to kill him for the London market. ' ' 

**Wot'll be a trial ? " inquired Sam. 

'*To see you married, Sammy; to see you a 
deluded wictim, and thinkin' in your innocence 
that it's all wery capital," repKed Mr. Weller. 
"It's a dreadful trial to a father's feelin's, that 
'ere, Sammy." 

"Nonsense," said Sam, "I ain't a goin' to 
get married, don't you fret youi-self about that. 
I know you're a judge o' these things; order in 
your pipe, and I'll read you the letter, — there ! " 

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready 
for any corrections, and began with a very 
theatrical air — 

"'Lovely '" 

"Stop," said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



265 



*'A double glass o' the inwariable, my dear." 

** Very well, sir," replied the girl, who with 
great quickness appeared, vanished, returned, 
and disappeared. 

* * They seem to know your ways here, ' ' ob- 
served Sam. 

"Yes," replied his father, ''I've been here 
before, in my time. Go on, Sammy." 

'* ' Lovely creetur',' " repeated Sam. 

* ' 'Taint in poetry, is it ? " interposed the father. 

^'No, no," replied Sam. 

''Wery glad to hear it," said Mr. Weller. 
''Poetry's unnat'ral. No man ever talked in 
poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's 
blackin' or Rowland's oil, or some o' them low 
fellows. Never you let yourself down to talk 
poetry, my boy. Begin again, Sammy. '* 

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical 
solemnity, and Sam once more commenced and 
read as follows : 

' '.' Lovely creetur' i feel myself a damned ' " — 

"That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking 
his pipe from his mouth. 

" No : it ain't damned," observed Sam, hold- 
ing the letter up to the light, "it's 'shamed,' 
there's a blot there ; ' i feel myself ashamed.' " 

" Wery good," said Mr. Weller. " Go on." 

" ' Feel myself ashamed, and completely 
cir — .' I forget wot this 'ere word is," said 
Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain 
attempts to remember. 

" Why don't you look at it, then ? " inquired 
Mr. Weller. 

"So I am alookin' at it," replied Sam, "but 
there's another blot: here's a ' c,' and a 'i,' 
and a 'd.' " 

" Circumwented, p'rhaps," suggested Mr. 
Weller. 

"No, it ain't that," said Sam: "circum- 
scribed,' that's it." 

" That ain't as good a word as circumwented, 
Sammy," said Mr. Weller, gravely. 

"Think not?" said Sam. 

" Nothin' like it," replied his father. 

"But don't you think it means more?" in- 
quired Sam, 



"Veil, p'rhaps it's a more tendererword, " 
said Mr. Weller, after a few moments' reflection. 
" Go on, Sammy." 

" ' Feel myself ashamed and completely cir- 
cumscribed in a dressin' of you, for you are a 
nice gal and nothin' but it. ' " 

"That's a wery pretty sentiment," said the 
elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make 
way for the remark. 

"Yes, I think it's rayther good," observed 
Sam, highly flattered. 

"Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," 
said the elder Mr. Weller, "is, that there ain't 
no callin' names in it, — no Wenuses, nor nothin' 
o' that kind ; wot's the good o' callin' a young 
'ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy ? " 

"Ah! what indeed?" replied Sam. 

" You might just as veil call her a griflin, or 
a unicorn, or a, king's arms at once, which is 
wery well known to be a collection o' xabulous 
animals," added Mr. Weller. 

"Just as well," replied Sam. 

"Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller. 

Sam complied with the request, and pro 
ceeded as follows : his father continuing to 
smoke with a mixed expression of wisdom and 
complacency, which was particularly edifying. 

" 'Afore i see you i thought all women was 
alike.' " ■ 

"So they are,^' observed the elder Mr. 
Weller, parenthetically. 

" * But now,' " continued Sam, " ' now i find 
what a reg'lar soft-headed, ink-red' lous turnip i 
must ha' been, for there ain't nobody like you, 
though / like you better than nothin' at all.' I 
thought it best to make that rayther strong," 
said Sam, looking up. 

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam 
resumed. 

" ' So i take the privilidge of the day, Mary, 
my dear, — as the gen'lem'n in difficulties did, 
ven he valked out of a Sunday, — to tell you that 
the first and only time i see you your likeness wos 
took on my hart in much quicker time and 
brighter colors than ever a likeness was taken by 
the profeel macbeen (wich p'rhaps you may have 



I 



266 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



heerd on Mary my dear), aitho' it does finish a 
portrait and put the frame and glass on complete 
v/ith a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all 
in two minutes and a quarter. ' ' ' 

* ' I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, 
Sammy," said Mr. Weller, dubiously. 

*' No it don't," replied -Sam, reading on very 
quickly to avoid contesting the point. 

** * Except of me Mary my dear as your valen- 
tine, and think over what I've said. My dear 
Mary I will now conclude. ' That's all, ' ' said Sam. 

'* That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it, 
Sammy ? ' ' inquired Mr. Weller. 

* * Not a bit on it, " said Sam : * * she' 11 vish there 
wos more and that's the great arto' letter writin' . ' ' 

"Well," said Mr. Weller, * ^ there 'ssomethin' 
in that : and I wish your mother-in-law 'ud only 
conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel 
principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it ? " 

'^That'c the difficulty" said Sam; "I don't 
know what to sign it." 



<'Sign it — Veller," said the oldest siirviving 
proprietor of that name. 

^' Won't do," said Sam. ''Never sign a 
walentine with your own name. ' ' 

''Sign it Pickvick, then," said Mr. Weller; 
"it's a wery good name, and a easy one to 
spell." 

"The wery thing," said Sam. "I could tnA 
with a werse : what do you think ? ' ' 

"I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. 
"I never know'd a respectable coachman as 
wrote poetry, 'cept one as made an affectin' 
copy o' werses the night afore he was hung for a 
highway robbery, and he wos only a Cambervell 
man, so even that's no rule." 

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the 
poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he 
signed the letter, — 

"Your love-sick 
Pickwick. ' ' 

Charles Dickens. 



THE LOST PENNY. 



N little Daisy's dimpled hand 
Two bright, new pennies shone ; 
One was for Rob (at school just then), 

The other Daisy's own. 

While waiting Rob's return she rolled 

Both treasures round the floor, 



When suddenly they disappeared, 

And one was seen no more. 

"Poor Daisy. Is your penny lost ?' * 

Was asked in accents kind. 

"Why, no, miners here ! " she quickly said , 

"It's Rob's I cannot find." 



TWO VISITS. 



HE fire in the kitchen was out, 

The clock told that midnight was past. 

The cook was in bed and asleep. 

And the door of the pantry was fast ; 

When six little mischievous mice, 
A-strolling for plunder and play. 

Came in by a hole in the wall 

They had gnawed for the purpose that day. 

First Sharp Tooth and Spry hurried through. 
Followed closely by Pry Nose and Fuzz ; 

A.nd lastly came Shy Toes and Sleek — 
Then, oh, what a frolic there was ! 



They danced on the best china plates-^ 
These six little mischievous mice; 

They nibbled the fruit-cake and pies ; 
They scattered the sugar and rice. 

With nothing to startle or harm. 
They kept up their frolic and feast 

Till the stars faded out of the sky. 
And morning appeared in the east. 

When they came to the pantry again. 
They spied in the midst of the floor 

A structure of wire and wood. 
Unseen on their visit before. 



i 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



267 



It seemed to their curious eyes, 
Well fitted for pleasure and ease, 

With six little rooms; and each one 
Had tables of bacon and cheese. 

They viewed it around and around, 

They snuffed the sweet smells with delight 

*■' 'Tis a house built for us, ' ' they exclaimed, 
** And we were expected to-night ! ' ' 



Then Sharp Tooth and Spry and the rest 
With nothing to make them afraid, 

Crept into the six little rooms 

Where supper was waiting and — staid! 

They came to the pantry no more, 
For this was the end of them all ; 

And the cook nailed a stout piece of tin 
On the hole they had made in the wall. 

N. E. M. Hatheway. 



MISS MALONY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION. 




y ^A CH ! dont' be talkin' . Is it howld on, 
kVL^y ye say? An' didn't I howld on till the 
heart of me was clane broke entirely, 
me wastin' that thin you could clutch me 
wid yer two hands? To think o' me toilin' like 
a nager for the six year I've been in Ameriky — 
bad luck to the day I iver left the owld counthry ! 
to be bate by the likes o' them ! (faix an' I'll sit 
down when I'm ready, so I will, Ann Ryan, an' 
ye'd better be list'nin' than drawin' your re- 
marks) ; an' is it mysel, with five good char- 
acters from respectable places, would be herdin' 
wid the haythens ? The saints forgive me, but 
I'd be buried alive sooner' n put up wid it a day 
longer. 

Sure an' I was the granehom not to be lavin' 
at onct when the missus kim into me kitchen 
wid her perlaver about the new waiter man 
which was brought out from Californy. **He'll 
be here the night," says she; *'and, Kitty, it's 
meself looks to you to be kind and patient wid 
him, for he's a furriner," says she, a kind o' 
lookin' off. ''Sure an' it's little I'll hinder nor 
interfare wid him nor any other, mum," says I, 
a kind o' stiff, for I minded me how these French 
■waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings 
on their fingers, isn't company for no gurril 
brought up dacint and honest. 

Och ! sorra a bit I knew what was comin' till 
the missus walked into me kitchen smillin', and 
says kind o' sheared : ' ' Here's Fing Wing, Kitty, 
an* you'll have t(>o much sinse to mind his bein' 
a little strange. ' ' Wid that she shoots the doore, 
and I, misthrusting if I was tidied up sufficient 



for me fine b'y wid his paper collar, looks up 
and — Howly fathers ! may I niver brathe another 
breath, but there stud a rale haythen Chineser 
a-grinnin' like he'd just come off a tay-box. If 
you'll belave me, the craytur' was that yeller it 
'ud sicken you to see him; and sorra stitch was 
on him but a black night-gown over his trowsers, 
and the front of his head shaved claner nor a 
copper biler, and a black tail a-hangin' down 
from it behind, wid his two feet stook into the 
heathenestest shoes you ever set eyes on. 

Och ! but I was up-stairs afore you could turn 
about, a givin' the missus warnin', an' odly stopt 
wid her by her raisin' me wages two dollars, and 
playdin' wid me how it was a Christian's duty 
to bear wid haythins and taitch 'em all in our 
power — the saints save us ! Well, the ways and 
trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, 1 
couldn't be tellin'. Not a bhssed thing cud I 
do but he'd be lookin' on wid his eyes cocked 
up'ard like two poomp-handles, an' he widdout 
a speck ot srnitch o' whishkers on him, an' his 
finger nails full a yard long. But it's dyin' 
you'd be to see the missus a-larnin' him, and he 
grinnin' an' waggin' his pig tail (which was 
pieced out long wid some black stoof, the 
haythen chate!), and gettin' into her ways won- 
derful quick, I don't deny, imitatin' that sharp, 
you'd be shurprised, and ketchin', an copyin' 
things the best of us will do a-hurried wid work, 
yet don't want comin' to the knowledge of the 
family — bad luck to him ! 

Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an' would I be 
sittin' wid a haythen an' he a-atin wid drum- 



268 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



sticks— yes, an* atin' dogs an' cats unknownst 
to me, I warrant you, which it is the custom of 
them Chinesers, till the thought made me that 
sick I could die. An' didn't the craytur' 
proffer to help me a wake ago come Toosday, 
an' me a foldin' down me clane clothes for the 
ironin', an' fill his haythin mouth wid water, an' 
afore I could hinder squirrit it through his teeth 
stret over the best linen table-cloth, and fold it 
up tight as innercent now as a baby, the dirrity 
baste ! 

But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd 
he doin' till ye'd be dishtracted. It's yersel' 
knotvs the tinder feet that's on me since ever 
I've been in this counthry. Well, owin' to 
that, I fell into a way o' slippin' me shoes off 
when I'd be settin' down to pale the praities or 
the likes o' that, and, do ye mind ! that haythin 
would do the same thing after me whinivir the 
missus set him to parin' apples or tomaterses. 
The saints in heaven couldn't have made him 
belave he cud kape the shoes on him when he'd 
be paylin' anything. 

Did I lave fur that? Faix an' I didn't. 
Didn't he get me into throuble wid my missus, 
the haythin? You're aware yersel' how the 
boondles comin' in from the grocery often con- 
tains more' n' 11 go into anything dacently. So, 
for that matter, I'd now and then take out a 
sup o' sugar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in 



paper and put it in me bit of a box tucked und^if 
the ironin' blankit the how it cuddent be bod- 
derin' any one. 

Well, what shud it be, but this blessed Sathur- 
day morn the missus was a spakin' pleasant and 
respec'ful wid me in me kitchen when the grocer 
boy comes in an' stands fornenst her wid his 
boondles, an' she motions like to Fing Wing 
(which I never would call him by that name ner 
any other but just haythin), — she motions to 
him, she does, for to take the boondles an' 
empty out the sugar an' what not where they 
belongs. If you'll belave me, Ann Ryan, what 
did that blatherin' Chineser do but take out a 
sup o* sugar, an' a handful o' tay, an' a bit o' 
chaze right aiore the missus, wrap them into bits 
o' paper, an' I spacheless wid shurprize, an' he 
the next minute up wid the ironin' blankit and 
pulHn' out me box wid a show o' bein' sly to 
put them in. Och, the Lord forgive me, but J! ; 
clutched it, and the missus say in', **0 Kitty!" 
in a way that 'ud cruddle your blood. **He's 
a haythin nager, ' ' says I. ' * I've found you out, 
says she. **I'll arrist him," says I. *'It's you 
ought to be arristed, ' ' says she. ' ' You won' t, ' * 
says I. * ' I will, ' ' says she — and so it went till 
she give me such sass as I cuddent take from no 
lady — an' I give her warnin' an' left that instant, 
an' she a-pointin' to the doore. 

Mary Mapes Dodge. 



THE KNIFE OF BOYHOOD. 



f PRIZE it, I love it, this jack-knife of mine ! 
No money could tempt me my prize to 
resign ! 
Through the lab'rinths of boyhood it proved a 

sure guide. 
And the notches it cut were my safety and pride. 

How long seemed the years I must patiently wait. 
My finger-ends tingling, and hear big boys prate 
Of the wonderful things which a jack-knife 

could do ! 
And they always wound up, **But it's too sharp 

for you I" 



But with pockets and pants came the coveted 

prize ; 
And I felt — well, as proud, for a lad of my size. 
As a millionaire does who has worked his own 

way 
From a farmhouse to life in a palace to-day. 

In that back seat at school. Oh, the nicks that' 

I made ! 
I there made my mark, though Time, the old 

jade, 
While lifting my classmates to honor and fame. 
Has left me still plodding on, ever the same. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



269 



'^'his knife* s neat and trim as a knife could well 

be, 
Though I broke off the blade just here, as you 

see; 
It was when I went fishing with Fred for brook 

trout, 
And the eels pulled so hard, our fish-poles gave 

out. 

"And the handle ! " I spHt that by letting it fall 
Once when I went nutting, and climbed a stone 

wall ; 
It slid from my pocket and cracked oh the rocks, 
For jack-knives, like people, can't stand too 

rude shocks. 

When once you get started in going down hill 
You are just like the grain that's put into the 

mill; 
It falls and it falls till it's ground, drop by drop; 



So, in going down hill, it*s the foot where you 
stop. 

'Tis the same old jack-knife though, in handle 
and blade. 

It's been broken more times than a routed bri- 
gade ; 

But, fresh from the workshop, it always comes 
back 

With some grace or some beauty all other knives 
lack. 

I love it, I prize it — ^my long cherished friend ! 
It shall stay by my side till my life here shall 

end. 
* Tis the knife of my boyhood — it*s beauty ne*er 

f^des, 
Though it's had six new handles and sixteea 

new blades. 

Louise Upham. 



NOT GUILTY(?) 



a 




I 



O you call that manners, Jacob? is that 

the way to bow — 
Tugging at your hat brim with strength 
to pull a plough? 
You seem to be embarrassed; you act like you 

were dazed; 
Let go your hat and answer me : why look you 
so amazed?** 

"Nuffin wrong, sah, nuffiini 'fore God I do de- 
clar' i 

'Ceptin' I war tinkin' as how you'd cuss an' 
swar 

' Cause de pigs hab not been fed, de horses cur- 
ried down ; 

'Pears when tings ar' gwine wrong you're sho to 
hap'n roun." 

"I thought I heard a chicken, Jake behind the 

cabin wall ; 
At first a lively cackle, and then a doleful squall. 
I may have been mistaken, but I hardly think I 

was. 
And chickens never squall you know, unless 

they have a cause' ' 



**Yes, sah — iio, sah 1 dac ol' chicken-hawk — ah 

— ^he don' com' again — 
Mi ! da hab de hardes' fight, him an' de speckle' 

hen. 
At firs' de hawk war master, but dat ol' hen am 

wise. 
She flop him crazy wid her wings an' peck him 

in the eyes: 
If dat ol' hen ain't game, boss, den dis ol' nigger 

lies." 
"And so you do, you rascal, it was no hen at all, 
I know a rooster's voice, boy — I heard a rooster 

squall." 

**Yes, sah, a spring chicken, 'bout the size to 

fry. 
De way dat rooster run an' squall an' try his bes' 

to fly! 
'Twas fun to see his capers, how he struv to get 

away ! 
Golly, he won't git ober de fright until his dyirf 

day." 

'^ That rooster fell in cruel hands that clutched 
him by the throat; 



270 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



That stopped his breath, his life, perhaps, in the 

middle of a note. ' ' 
'^'Scuse me, boss, I mos' forgot, dem pigs mus' 

hab dar corn, 
t*ll feed de shoats an' plow de fiel' till Dinah 

blows de horn. ' ' 



'Hold, Jake, that hat of yours, now like a 

steeple grows — 
Now the crown sinks down again — spreads out just 

like your nose — 
Now — ^ha! ha! ha! What's that between the 

crown and brim ? 
A. roooster's head ! and you are caught, as sure 

as you caught him." 

The rooster turned his head about anvi gave a 

flop or two ; 
Then in a voice both loud and shrill, cries 

**Cack-cack-cack-cack — koo-hoo ! " 
Much as to say, **I'm puzzled, I know not what 

to do.'* 
Jake gently raised his beaver up, and out the 

prisoner flew. 



He slowly scratched his rvoolly head, and gazed 

upon the ground, 
Pondering what e ccuse to make, if any could bt 

found. 
But soon his reverie's broken by the question : 

*'WeL, sir, how 
Came that chicken in your hat, — your hat apon 

your brow?" 

'*'Clar, boss, 'is bery strange how dese young 

chi( kens do; 
When da'r frightened by de hawk da'l creep 

into a shoe, 
An' dat young rooster got dar jes' to hide hese'f, 
As cunnin' as de little mouse what cHm's upon 

de she'f, 
You dunno how he git dar, how he come an' go, 
But you kno' de varmint's up dar, for sartin 

an' for sho — 
But de way dat rooster dim' de wey up in my hat, 
Beats de sharpes' mouse, sah, dat eber fooled a 

cat! 
I wish dat I ma' die, sah, 'fore I move a peg, 
If I don't beleab he dim' dar, up my breeches* 

leg!'' J. W. Hatton 



THE CAT'S BATH. 

A ''LITTLE folks'" SONG. 



^ 



|S pussy sat washing her face by the gate, 
A nice little dog came to have a good 
chat ; 
And after some talk about matters of state. 

Said, with a low bow, ''My dear Mrs. Cat, 
I really do hope you'll not think I am rude ; 

I am curious, I know, and that you may say — 
Perhaps you'll be angry — ^but no, you're too 

good — 
Pray why do you wash in that very odd way ? 
Now I every day rush away to the lake. 

And in the dear water I dive and I swim ; 
I dry my wet fur with a run and a shake, 

And am fresh as a rose and neat as a pin. 
But you any day in the sun may be seen. 
Just rubbing yourself with your red little 
tongue ; 



I admire the grace with which it is done — 
But really, now, are you sure you get yourself 
dean?" 
The cat, who sat swelling with rage and sur- 
prise 
At this, could no longer her fury contain, 
For she had always supposed herself rather pre- 
cise. 
And of her sleek neatness had been somewhat 
vain; 
So she flew at poor doggy and boxed both his 
ears. 
Scratched his nose and his eyes, and spit in his 
face. 
And sent him off yelping; from which it appears 
Those who ask prying questions may meet 
with disgrace. 



J. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS, 



27^ 



THE QUEER 

^HERE'S a queer little house, 

And it stands in the sun. 
When the good mother calls. 

The children all run. 
While under her roof 

They are cozy and warm, 
Though the cold wind may whistle 

And bluster and storm. 

In the daytime, this queer 

Little house moves away, 
And the children run after it, 

Happy and gay ; 
But it comes back at night, 

And the children are fed, 
And tucked up to sleep 

In a soft feather-bed. 



LITTLE H0U5E. 

This queer little house 

Has no windows nor doors- 
The roof has no shingles, 

The rooms have no floors- - 
No fire-place, chimney. 

Nor stove can you see. 
Yet the children are cozy 

And warm as can be. 

The story of this 

Funny house is all true, 
I have seen it myself. 

And I think you have, too. 
You can see it to-day. 

If you watch the old hen, 
When her downy wings cover 

Her chickens again. 



REVERIE IN CHURCH. 



f•^00 early of course ! How provoking ! 
I told ma just how it would be. 
I might as well have on a wrapper. 
For there's not a soul here yet to see. 

There ! Sue Delaplaine's pew is empty, — 

I declare if it isn't too bad ! 
I know my suit cost more than her's did. 

And I wanted to see her look mad. 

I do think that sexton's too stupid — 
He's put some one else in our pew — 

And the girl's dress just kills mine completely ; 
Now what am I going to do ? 

The psalter, and Sue isn't here yet I 

I don't care, I think it's a sin 
For people to get late to service. 

Just to make a great show coming in. 

Perhaps she is sick, and can*t get here — 
She said she'd a headache last night. 

How mad she'll be after her fussing ! 
I declare it would serve her just right. 



Oh, you've got here at last, my dear, have yoia i 
Well, I don't think you need be so proud 

Of that bonnet if Virot did make it. 
It's horrid fast-looking and loud. 

What a dress ! — for d, girl in her senses 
To go on the street in light blue ! — 
And those coat-sleeves — they wore them la&l 
summer — 
Don't doubt, though, that she thinks they*n» 
new. 

Mrs. Gray's polonaise was imported — 

So dreadful ! — a minister's wife. 
And thinking so much about fashion I — 

A pretty example of life ! 

The altar's dressed sweetly — I wonder 

Who sent those white flowers for the font I— 

Some girl who's gone on the assistant-' 
Don't doubt it was Bessie Lament. 

Just look at her now, little humbug ! — 
So devout — I suppose she don't know 

That she's bending her head too far over 
And the ends of her switches all show. 



iM, 



272 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



What a sight Mrs. Ward is this morning ! 

That woman will kill me some day, 
With her horrible lilacs and crimsons, 

Why will these old things dress so gay ? 

And there's Jenny Wells with Fred Tracy — 
She's engaged to him now — horrid thing ! 

Dear me ! I'd keep on my glove sometimes. 
If I did have a solitaire ring ! 

How can this girl next to me act so — 
The way that she turns round and stares, 



And then makes remarks about people:— 
She'd better be saying her prayers. 

Oh, dear, what a dreadful long sermon ! 

He must love to hear himself talk ! 
And it's after twelve now, — ^how provoking I 

I wanted to have a nice walk. 

Through at last. Well, it isn't so dreadful 
After all, for we don't dine till one ; 

How can people say church is poky ! — 
So wicked ! — I think its real fun. 

George A. Baker, Jr. 



BABY'S LOGIC. 



HE was ironing her dolly's new gown 
Maid Marian, four years old, 

With her brows puckered down 

In a painstaking frown 
Under her tresses of gold. 

'Twas Sunday, and nurse coming in 
Exclaimed in a tone of surprise : 
"Don't you know it's a sin 



Any work to begin 

On the day that the Lord sanctifies?" 

Then, lifting her face like a rose. 
Thus answered this wise little tot : 

"Now, don't you suppose 

The good Lord he knows 
This little iron ain't hot?" 

Elizabeth W. Beli-amy. 



ABNER'S SECOND WIFE. 



/^\ NINE days' wonder had Tattlerstown, 

L^ Its gossips regaled on a morsel sweet, 

J And the whilom widower, Abner Brown, 

Provided, free gratis, the luscious treat. 
For Abner, tiring of single life. 

And sighing again for wedded bliss, 
Affinity found for a second wife 

In Amanda Green, an ancient miss. 



The widow Simmons made bold to state 

(Though in neighbors' affairs she took no part! ) 
That Abner was lured to a dreadful fate 

By deep design and a cunning art. 
However, this view caused no surprise. 

For as plain as the noonday sun ' twas seen. 
The widow looked through the monster's eyes, 

Whose hues are said to be emerald green. 



Samantha Jones and Abigail White- 
Two maidens born in the long age 

Wouldn't think of marrying such a fright ! 
** But 'Mandy was growing old, you know I ** 

We're told at length in ancient tale 

How Reynard roamed where the grapes hung 
high^ 

To both Samantha and Abigail 
This aged legend will well apply. 

Belinda Jenkins turned up her nose, 

And scornfully sniffling the ambient att". 
Maliciously hinted the dead wife's clothes 

Were all the living would get to wear. 
To which Mrs. Mopps rejoined, * ' I guess 

Ab. Brown '11 be like the rest of his ilk. 
Who keep the fust in a kaliker dress 

That the second critter may wear the silk ! *'j 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



273 



Some said Amanda would be the boss, 

And others argijed the other way ; 
Some thought his grief for his first wife's loss 

Was a hypocrite's pretense and play. 
Amanda and Abner were both the theme 

At the quilting-bee and the milliner's shop, 
Until it really began to seem 

The wagging tongues would never stop. 



A fragment or two came Abner* s way, 

Conveyed by his bosom friend. Bill Ayers, 
And the bridegroom had only this to say. 

While the town was nosing in his affairs : 
*' I knowed a man onst 'way down South, 

And houses and lands and bonds were his 
And he made it all by shuttin' his mouth 

And mindin' his individooal biz ! " 



M'CALLA AND THE MIDDY. 



HOW THE LATTER GOT SQUARE. 



«w 



HEN I sailed with Lieutenant- Com- 
mander McCalla several years ago, ' ' 
said a young naval officer to a 
Washington reporter, ^''he had already made a 
reputation as a rigid disciplinarian. One day it 
chanced that a young midshipman whom he had 
sent ashore went a trifle beyond the instructions 
given him with relation to his errand. The 
matter was not of the least importance, but 
McCalla chided him sharply, saying : 

**When you receive an order, sir, do simply 
what you are told to do and never a particle 
more or less." 

''The midshipman touched his hat respect- 
fully, but he thought the rebuke uncalled for and 
bided his time for getting even. A few days 
later McCalla summoned him and said: 

**You will take a boat, sir, and go ashore to 
the postoffice. See if there is a package there 
for me. '* *Ay, Ay, sir.' " 



''The midshipman took the boat and weot 
ashore. When he returned McCalla asked : 

" 'Well, sir, was there a package for me at the 
postoffice ? ' 

"'Yes, sir,* replied the midshipman, touch- 
ing his cap. 

" 'Where is it? ' 'At the postoffice, sir.* 

" 'What? you didn't bring it with you?' 

"'No, sir.' 'Why not, sir?' 

" 'Because I had no orders to do so, sir.' 

" 'I told you to get the package.' 

" 'Beg pardon, sir, but I understood you to 
tell me merely to see if there was a package for 
you at the postoffice, and I could not venture 
to do a particle more or less than my instruc- 
tions indicated.' 

"McCalla looked just then as if he would 
have liked to eat up that midshipman, but it 
was impossible for him to say anything. The 
midshipman had got square." 



THE HUSKIN'. 




© 



LE "Cross-roads Brown," he give a bee, 

An' 'vited all the neighbors. 
Until a rig'ment fought his corn. 

With huskin'-pegs fur sabers. 

The night was clear as Em Steele's eyes, 
The moon as mild as Nancy's, 

The stars was winkin's if they knowed 
All 'bout our loves and fancies. 



The breeze was sharp an' braced a chap, 

Like Minnie Silvers' lau^hin'; 
U 



The cider in the gallon jug 
Was jes tip-top for quaffin'. 

The gals sung many a ole-time song, 

Us boys a-jinin' chorus — 
We'd no past shames to make us sad. 

Nor dreaded ones afore us. 

The shock was tumbled on the ground. 
Each one its own direction, 

An' ears was droppin' all around. 
Like pennies at collection. 



274 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



On one side o* the shock a boy, 
His sweetheart on the other, 

A kind o' timid Hke an' coy. 
But not so very, nuther. 

The fodder rustles dry and clean, 
The husks like silver glisten, 

The ears o' gold shine in between. 
As if they try to listen. 

An' when a red ear comes to light. 
Like some strange boy a-blushin'. 

The gal she gives a scream o' fright, 
An' jukes her pardner, rushin' 

To get a kiss, the red ear's prize. 
Till, conquered most completely. 

She lifts her lips an' brightened eyes 
An' gives him one so sweetly. 

They hed a shock off from the rest — 
Tom Fell an' Lizzie Beyer, 

An' Tom he wouldn't say a word. 
Got mute in getting nigh her. 



But Liz, she knowed jest by his move, 
Tom loved her like tarnation. 

An' every time she said a word 
She seen him blush carnation. 

She seen him husk the red ears out. 

The bashful, foolish fellow, 
As if each red one wasn't worth 

A dozen piles o' yellow. 

Their shock was jes' 'bout finished up. 

An' Liz was busy twistin' 
A great big ear, to get it off. 

An' it was still resistin'^ 

Until she said, '' Do break it, Tom," 
She didn't know she hed one. 

Till lookin' down she blushed an' cried, 
*'Oh! gracious, Tom, 't's a red one!" 

An* Tom he gave her such a kiss — 
Stretched out ' twould make me twenty. 

An' all that night, in all their shocks. 
Red ears seemed mighty plenty. 

Will F. McSparran. 



/^' so you 

n "' 

/ It war'] 



THE FANCY WORK MAIDEN 

P so you kinder wanter know w'y I broke 
off with Sal? 

nt because she war'nt a good an' 
mighty purty gal ; 
For there ain't a blessed star in heaven shines 

brighter than her eyes. 
An' her cheeks are just like peaches on the trees 
of Paradise ! 



An' her smile is like the sunshine spilt upon a 

flower bed, 
An' her hair like sproutin' sunbeams, on the 

garding of her head. 
An' her laff is like a singin' brook that bubbles 

as it passes 
Thro' the stuck-up tiger lilies, an' the purty 

smellin' grasses. 

An' I told her that I loved her much as forty 
times a day, 



But she hadn't much time to bother, an' kept on 

with her crowshay, 
Wen I plumped right down afore her, plumb 

upon my very knees, 
She said, ''Git off my rick-rack, an' you're 

rumplin' up my frieze." 



An' I tried to talk of love an' things, an' told 

her I would die 
Unless she smiled upon my soot. She simply 

said, ''Oh, my! 
You've tore my purty tidy down, an' hain't ye 

got no eyes? 
You've planted them big feet o' yourn on them 

ar tapestries ! ' ' 

An' she wove big flamingoes, snipes, an' turkeyi 

on her rugs, 
An' she painted yuller poodles on her mother's 

'lasses jugs. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



275 



An' she painted purple angels on majenta col- 
ored plaques, 

An' five orange-colored cherubs, with blue wings 
behind their backs. 

An' w'en I talked of love an' stuff she'd talk of 

rugs an' lace, 
An' ax me would I take my feet from off thet 

Chiny vase. 
I'd say, " My heart's love, O, be mine ! be mine ! 

be wholly mine ! " 



She'd say, ** You've got your elbows mixed in 
that silk skein er twine." 

Now I'm goin' to Arizony for to do a cowboy's 

work. 
Driven forth from civil' zation by the cuss er 

fancy work, 
But her smile will alius hant me, alius in my 

visions play. 
Framed in latest styles of rick-rack, with a back* 

groun' of crows^y. S. W. Foss. 



T(|^HEN I was at the party," 
V/y Said Betty (aged just four), 
*'A Httle girl fell off her chair. 
Right down upon the floor ; 
And. all the other little girls 
Began to laugh, but me — 
/didn't laugh a single bit," 
Said Betty, seriously. 



THE REASON WHY. 

** Why not?" 



her mother asked her, 

Full of delight to find 
That Betty — bless her Httle heart I — 

Had been so sweetly kind. 
**Why didn'ty cm laugh, darling? 

Or don't you like to tell ?" 
-* I didn't laugh," said Betty, 

" Cause it was me that fell ! ** 



A BIT OF SHOPPING FOR THE COUNTRY. 




^Y very dear friend : 

This is simply addenda to what I last 
wrote. 

But the price-list I see, from which I there quote. 
Improves every day. I'm fairly delighted 
(Perhaps you may call my condition excited) 
At what I've just read in T/ie Sfar a.nd The Sun. 
What soul-stirring bargains must be going on ! 
I enclose you straightway a whole Ten Dollar 

note 
To go with the list I have just made you out — 
One moment, dear Carrie, with impudence bear 
1/ I ask you to handle the enclosure with care. 
Try to stretch it as far, now, please, dearest, do, 
;As ever a '* ten-stroke " has been known to go. 
You'll lift it, I'm sure, as a thing of some 

weight 
When I tell you it outweighs twelve bushels of 

wheat. 

Imprimis, my room. And Madras, I see 
ts just down as low as curtains can be ; 



As mine, now, are hanging most limp and thread' 
bare, 

I'll trouble you, Carrie, to get me two pair. 

Twenty yards, I suppose, — twenty yards more or 
less, — 

I can't be exact ; but I know you can guess. 

The walls need a paper, — gilt paper I'd choose; 

Some eight or ten pieces would do, I suppose. 

Then, the dear, old arm-chair decidedly hints 

She'd like a new dress of the cretonne or 
chintz, 

A lounge cover, too, may as well come along. 

Since cretonne is selling for just **a mere 
song." 

I can't slight the mantle ! Send a lambrequin^ 
too; 

The old would look shabby with so much brand- 
new. 

I want all alike, — the cretonne for these. 

Not the sort that is thin and slazy, dear, please — 

You remember 'tis rather a weakness of mine* 

J like the price low, but the quality ^ne. 



276 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



Next for myself. And so far gone is this 
I think there is nothing that could come amiss. 
But then I must limit my wishes, of course, 
Or else my demands might outrun my purse. 
Once begin and I hardly know when I shall stop. 
For order's sake, then, we'll begin at the top. 
A. bonnet, — I want just the simplest frame, 
With a scrap of green surah to cover the same, 
(Please pin it on, love, with the top-knot and 

strings). 
Of course I don't dream of those fine Frenchy 

things. 
But I want enough flowers and lace to look nice. 
And something in jet to tip off the device. 

Some collars and cuffs, — the size just for you ; 
Say a dozen of each ; and of handkerchiefs, too, 
(By the way, I see bordered and beautiful ones 
Can be had for ten cents at Nichols and Sons' ) . 
And gloves, some eight-buttoned at Donald and 

Dent's ; 
The best of Jouran's at — I think, fifty cents. 
Six is my number. I must own the fact 
That in matter of gloves I am very exact. 

Next for my boots. O Carrie, dear, please 
Get softest French leather in good number threes. 
I see that Waukeasy and some of the rest. 
For less than a dollar are selling '* the best." 
But my poor tender toes — O Carrie, my dear, 



Of those ironside corn-crushers please you beware 1 
Those pitiless soles that pierce you like thorns 
Right into the quick of your tenderest corns ! 

As to the dress I need say nothing more. 
The order stands just as I wrote you before. 
I don't care how cheap you get the sateen 
Just so it is fine, and pretty sage green. 

And now, I believe I have made out the bill. 

Which I hope, love, will give you no trouble to 
fill. 

Of course you'll retain what will have it ex- 
pressed. 

Or, send it by mail, just as you think best. 

And then with what's over don't worry about ; 
It makes no great odds how you lay it out. 
'Twill be but a trifle, and I'm not precise, 
Any cute httle notion, that's useful and nice. 

And now, dear, forgive if I should here repeat 
The gentle reminder regarding the wheat. 
For money is money these dreadful hard times, 
And reckless extravagance ranks with the crimes. 
Please send on the package as soon as can be. 
Of course these returns I'm distracted to see. 
Curiosity's sharpened distressingly keen 
Of — truly and fondly, your own, Eva Green. 



MATTIE'S WANTS AND WISHES. 



I 



WANTS a piece of cal'co 

To make my doll a dress j 
I doesn't want a big piece ; 

A yard' 11 do I guess. 
I wish you 'fred my needle. 

And find my fimble,too— 
I has such heaps o' sewin' 

I don't know what to do. 



My Hepsy tored her apron 
A tum'lin' down the stair. 

And Caesar's lost his pantnoons. 
And needs anozzer pair. 



I wants my Maud a bonnet ; 

She hasn't none at all; 
And Fred must have a jacke" 

His ozzer one's too small. 



I wants to go to grandma's ; 

You promised me I might. 
I know she'd like to see me ; 

I wants to go to-night. 
She lets me wipe the dishes, 

And see in grandpa's watch— 
I wish I'd free, four pennies 

To buy some butter-scotck. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



277 



I wants some newer mittens — 
I wish you'd knit me some, 

' Cause most my finger freezes, 
They leaks so in the fum, 

I wored 'em out last summer, 
A puUin' George's sled; 

I wish you wouldn't laugh so— 
It hurts me in my head. 



I wish I had a cookie ; 

I'm hungry' s I can be. 
If you hasn't pretty large ones, 

You'd better bring me free. 
I wish I had a p'ano — 

Won't you buy me one to keep ? 
O, dear ! I feels so tired, 

I wants to go to sleep. Grace Gordon. 



HATTIE'S VIEWS ON HOUSECLEANINQ. 




m 



JJK folks have been cleaning house — and, 
oh ) it is just dreadful, I think ! Why, 
a little girl might just as well have no 
mamma as to have a mamma who is cleaning 
house. She does not have any time to tend to 
me at all. She ties her head up in an old apron, 
and wears an ugly old dress, and she don't look 
a bit pietty. Then she pulls everything out of 
its place, and the house looks — oh ! so bad. We 
do not have any good dinners, either, 'cause 
there's no time to stop to get them ready. And 
I cannot find my dear Margaret that was broken 



a little, and the saw-dust ran out of her. 
Mamma said she made so much dirt that she 
must be burnt up, and oh ! I'm afraid that is 
where she has gone. And ever so many of my 
playthings are lost — lost in the housecleaning. 
What if they were old and broken ! I loved 
them. So is it any wonder I think house-clean* 
ing is a dreadful thing ? 

When I grow up to be a big woman, I mean 
never to clean house at all, but be just as dirty 
and happy as I can. What's the world made of 
if it isn't made of dirt? 



' IM DOLAN and his wife, wan night, 

Were drinkin' av the crayture. 
Whin something started up a fight. 
And they wint at it right an' tight, 
According to their nature. 

C Grady and mesilf stood near, 

Expecting bloody murther. 
Says he to me: ''Let's interfere.** 
^ut I pretending not to hear. 
Moved off a little further. 



PAT'S WISDOM. 

"Lave off, ye brute," says he to Tim; 

** No man wud sthrike a lady." 
But both the Doolans turned on him. 
And in a whist the two av them 

Were wallopin O' Grady. 

That night whin I was home, in bed, 

Remimbering this token, 
I took the notion in my head 
That the wisest word I iver said 
Was the one that wasn't spoken. 



MODERN EDUCATION. 



HE trustees of a school on Staten Island 
r: -:ently commissioned one of their num- 
ber to convey to the teachers the \vishes 
of the board as to the nature of the studies to be 
pursued. When the teachers were assembled 
before him, the spokesman of the trustees made 
the following address : 

"Teachers: I've been disputed by my fellow- 



cowleeks of the Board to make a short collation 
to you on the subject of running this school 
practical. We don't want you to learn the 
scholars no fancy things They learned me lots 
of nonsense where I went to school, and I never 
made the first dollar out of it. Now, there's 
arithmetic. We want you to play light with 
that. You can learn the children to do sums in 



278 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



Partition, Distraction, Stultification, and Long 
and Short Provisions, but that's all. Don't 
you teach them Fractures. I lost six months 
when I went to school learning Fractures, and 
last week I spent two days trying to measure off 
an acre of pasture, and I'd have been at it yet if 
I'd stuck to them Fractures. I had to go over 
the ground with a two-foot rule after all. Frac- 
tures is too puzzling. You are always Convert- 
ing the Divider the wrong way, or getting the 
Fumigator and the Nomination mixed up on the 
wrong side of the line. 

* ' Then there's English Grabber ; that' s another 
book we don't want you to use much. I learned 
all about it when I was a boy, and what do I 
know now? I couldn't parsley ten words if I 
had to die. Of course, all these boys may be 
thfi President of the United States, and then 
they'll want to know a little about it, for there's 
no use in a man running for office unless he's 
good at Grabber; so you can just learn the 
children what they call the Smarts of Speech — 
the Article, the Clown, the Axletive, the Herb, 
the Parsnip, the Injunction, and the rest of 
them. 

"As for Geography, we don't want 'any of 



that in the school unless you get the new and 
improved one. The Geography that me and 
my cowleeks of the board learned at school was 
filled with a pack of lies and nonsense; it said 
the earth was all covered over with criss-cros? 
lines that they called the lines of Gratitude and 
the Cathartic Circular and the He- Quaker that 
ran all around the earth after the Great Sarah. 
Now, that's worse than dime novels, and don't 
you teach any of it here. 

*^Then I see in the next district they raised 
;^ 20 off the taxpayers to 'increase the Falicities 
of their school,' so they said. Now we don't 
want you to use any Falicities in this school ; if 
you've got to use anything of that kind take a 
rattan, but I tell you public opinion is against 
corporation punishment in any shape, and though 
the tax-payers may stand a rattan they'll Mck if 
any of their boys is whaled with a Falicity. The 
only kind of punishment that is allowed in these 
times is moral swearin'; it hurts the boys just as 
much as rattans, and it don't leave no marks on 
them. 

'* These are all the rules and regulations we 
have drawed up for the present, but at our next 
meeting will get up some more.'* 



THE OWL-CRITIC. 



a 



w 



HO stuffed that white owl ? " No one 
spoke in the shop ; 
The barber was busy, and he couldn't 
stop ; 
The customers, waiting their turns, were all 

reading 
The Daily ^ the Herald^ the Post^ little heeding 
The young man who blurted out such a blunt 

question ; 
Not one raised a head, or even made a sugges- 
tion ; 

And the barber kept on shaving. 

"Don't you see. Mister Brown,'* 
Cried the youth, with a frown, 
"How wrong the whole thing is, 
How preposterous each wing is, 



How flattened the head is, how jammed down 

the neck is — 
In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 

'tis ! 

"I make no apology ; 

I've learned owl-eology. 

I've passed days and nights in a hundred collec- 
tions. 

And cannot be blinded to any deflections 

Arising from unskilful fingers that fail 

To stuff a bird right, from his beak to hi*: tail. 

Mister Brown ! Mister Brown ! 

Do take that bird down. 

Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all ovei 
town! " 

And the barber kept on shaving. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



279 



''I've studied oyfh, 
And other night fowls 
And I tell you 
What I know to be true : 
An owl cannot roost 
With his limbs so unloosed ; 
No owl in this world 
Ever had his claws curled, 
Ev^er had his legs slanted, 
Ever had his bill canted. 
Ever had his neck screwed 
Into that attitude. 
He can't do it, because 
'Tis against all bird laws. 
Anatomy teaches, 
Ornithology preaches. 
An owl has a toe 
That can' t tarn out so ! 
I've made the white owl my study for years. 
And to see such a job almost moves me to tears \ 
Mister Brown, I'm amazed 
*Tou should be so gone crazed 
As to put up a bird 
In that posture absurd ! 

To look Sit that owl really brings on a dizziness ; 
The man who stuffed him don't half know his 
business ! ' ' 

And the barber kept on shaving. 

** Examine those eyes. 
I'm filled with surprise 
Taxidermists should pass 
Off on you such poor glass ; 



So unnatural they seem 

They'd make Audubon scream. 

And John Burroughs laugh 

To encounter such chaff. 

Do take that bird down ; 

Have him stuffed again. Brown I ** 

And the barber kept on shaving I 

" With some sawdust and bark 

I could stuff in the dark 

An owl better than that. 

I could make an old hat 

Look more like an owl 

Than that horrid fowl. 

Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse 

leather. 
Ii> fact, about Mm there's not one natural 

feather." 

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch. 

The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch. 

Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding 
critic 

(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance 
analytic, 

And then fairly hooted, as if he should say ; 

'' Your learning's at fault this time, anyway; 

Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray. 

I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good- 
day ! " 

And the barber kept on shaving. 
James T. Field. 



THE REASON WHY. 



'AN anybody tell why, when Eve was 
manufactured from one of Adam's ribs, 
a hired girl wasn't made at the same 
time to wait on her? 

We can, easily. Because Adam never came 
whining to Eve with a ragged stocking to be 
darned, a collar button to be sewed on, or a 
glove to be mended ' ' right away quick now. ' ' 
Because he never read the newspaper until the 
sun got down behind the palm trees, and then 
stretched himself, yawning out, "Ain't supper 



most ready, my dear. ' * Not he. He made the 
fire and hung over it the tea-kettle himself we'll 
venture, and pulled the radishes and peeled the 
bananas, and did everything else that he ought 
to. He milked the cows and fed the chickens 
and looked after the pigs himself. 

He never brought home half a dozen friends 
to dinner when Eve hadn't any fresh pomegran- 
ates and the mango season was over. He never 
stayed out until ii o'clock to a ward meeting, 
hurrahing for the out-and-out candidate, and 



i;^^'. 



280 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



then scolded because poor Eve was sitting up 
and crying inside the gates. To be sure he 
acted rather cowardly about the apple -gathering 
time, but that don't depreciate his general helpful- 
ness about the garden ! He never played billards, 
nor drove fast horses, nor choked Eve with 
cigar-smoke. He never loafed around corner 
groceries while solitary Eve was rocking little 
Cain's cradle at home. 



In short, he did not think she was specially 
created for the purpose of waiting on him, and 
wasn't under the impression that it disgraced a 
man to lighten his wife's cares a little. That is 
the reason that Eve did not need a hired girl, 
and we wish that it was the reason that none of 
her decendants did. He tended the baby while 
Eve was getting breakfast and was a sort of 
hired girl himself. 



SONG OF THE ALL-WOOL SHIRT. 




Y father bought an undershirt 

Of bright and flaming red — 
**A11 wool, I'm ready to assert, 

Fleece-dyed," the merchant said. 
** Your size is thirty-eight, I think; 

A forty you should get. 
Since all-wool goods are bound to shrink 

A trifle when they're wet." 

That shirt two weeks my father wore — - 
Two washings that was all — 

From forty down to thirty-four 
It shrank like leaf in fall. 



I wore it then a. day or two. 
But when 'twas washed again, 

My wife said * ' Now ' twill onljf do 
For little brother Ben. ' ' 

A fortnight Ben squeezed into it. 

At last he said it hurt, 
We put it on our babe — the fit 

Was good as any shirt. 
We ne'er shall wash it rnore while yet 

We see its flickering light. 
For if again that shirt is wet, 

'Twill vanish from our sight. 



THERE ONCE 

THERE once was a toper — I'll not tell his 
name — 

Who had for his comfort a scolding old 
dame ; 
And often and often he wished himself dead, 
For if drunk he came home, she would beat him 

to bed. 
He spent all his evenings away from his home. 
And when he returned, he would sneakingly 

come 
And try to walk straightly, and say not a word, — 
Just to keep his dear wife from abusing her lord ; 
For, if he dared say his tongue was his own, 
' Twould set her tongue going, in no gentle tone. 
And she'd huff him, and cuff him, and call him 

hard names ; 
A.nd he'd sigh to be rid of all scolding old 

dames. 
It happened, one night, on a frolic he went. 



WAS A TOPER. 

He staid till his very last penny was spent, 
But how to go home, and get safely to bed, 
Was the thing on his heart that most heavily 

weighed. 
But home he must go , so he caught up his hat, 
And off he went singing, by this and by that, 
"I'll pluck up my courage, I guess she's in bed. 
If she aint, 'tis no matter, I'm sure* who's 

afraid?" 
He came to his door ; he lingered until 
He peeped, and he listened, and all seemed quite 

still ; 
In he went, and his wife sure enough was in bed ! 
**0h ! " says he, " it's just as I thought : who's 
afraid!" • 

He crept about softly, and spoke not a word. 
His wife seemed to sleep, for she never e'n 
stirred ! 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



281 



Thought he, ''For this night, then, my fortune 

is made ! 
For my dear scolding wife is asleep ! Who's 

afraid?" 
But soon he felt thirsty ; and slyly he rose, 
A.nd groping around, to the table he goes. 
The pitcher found empty, — and so was the 

bowl. 
The pail and the tumblers ; she'd emptied the 

whole ! 
At length in a corner, a vessel he found ; 
Says he, ^* Here's something to drink, I'll be 

bound ! ' ' 
And eagerly seizing, he lifted it up — 
And drank it all off, in one large hearty sup ! 

It tasted so queerly ; and, what it could be. 
He wondered : — it neither was water, nor tea ! 



Just then a thought struck him and filled him 

with fear. 
*' Oh ! it must be the poison for rats, I declare 1 ' ' 

And loudly he called on his dear sleeping wife, 
And begged her to rise, ''for," said he, "on 

my life, 
I fear it was poison^ the bowl did contain ; 
Oh, dear ! yes, — it was poison, I now feel the 

pain ! ' ' 
"And what made you dry, sir?" the wife 

sharply cried ; 
"'Twould serve you just right if from poison 

you died ! 
You've done a fine job, and you'd now better 

march. 
For just seey you brute ^ you have drank all my 

starch!'' 



A GREAT FIT. 



HERE was a man in Arkansaw 

As let his passions rise. 
And not unfrequently picked out 
Some other varmint's eyes. 

His name was Tuscaloosa Sam ; 

And often he would say : 
"There's not a cuss in Arkansaw 

I can't whip any day." 

One morn, a stranger passin' by 

Heard Sammy talkin' so. 
When down he scrabbled from his hoss. 

And off his coat did go. 

He sorter kinder shut one eye, 

And spit into his hand. 
And put his ugly head one side. 

And twitched his trousers' band. 

" My boy," says he, "it's my belief, 

Whomever you may be, 
That I kin make you screech, and smell 

Pertikler agony. ' ' 



■*I'm thar," says Tuscaloosa Sam, 

And chucked his hat away ; 
"I'm thar," says he, and buttoned up 

As far as button may. 

He thundered on the stranger's face. 

The stranger pounded he ; 
And oh ! the way them critters fit 

Was beautiful to see. 

They clinched like two rampagious bears. 

And then went down a bit ; 
They swore a stream of six-inch oaths, 

And fit, and fit, and fit. 

When Sam would try to work away, 

And on his pegs to git. 
The stranger' d pull him back ; and so 

They fit, and fit, and fit ! 

Then, like a pair ot lobsters, both 

Upon the ground were knit. 
And yet the varmints used their teeth. 

And fit, and fit, and fit ! 



282 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



The sun of noon was high above, 

And hot enough to split, 
But only riled the fellers more 

That fit, and fit, and fit ! 

The stranger snapped at Sammy's nose. 

And shortened it a bit ; 
And then they both swore awfiil hard, 

And fit, and fit, and fit 1 

The mud it flew, the sky grew dark. 

And all the litenins lit : 
But still them critters rolled about. 

And fit, and fit, and fit ! 

First Sam on top, then t'other chap ; 

When one would make a hit 
The other' d smell the grass : and so 

They fit, and fit, and fit ! 

The night came on, the stars shone out 

As bright as wimmen's wit; 
And still them fellers swore and gouged, 

And fit, and fit, and fit! 



The neighbors heard the noise they nkade 
And thought an earthquake lit; 

Yet all the while 'was him and Sam 
As fit, and fit, and fit ! 

Fur miles around the noise was heard, 

Folks couldn't sleep a bit, 
Because them two rantankerous chaps 

Still fit, and fit, and fit ! 

But jist at cock-crow, suddenly. 

There came an awful pause. 
And I and my old man run out 

To ascertain the cause. 

The sun was rising in the east. 

And lit the hull concern, 
But not a sign of either chap 

Was found at any turn. 

Yet in the region where they fit, 

We found, to our surprise, 
One pint of buttons, two big knives, 

Some whiskers and four eyes ! 

Orpheus C. Kerr. 



THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

(" Suit the action to the word ; the word to the action."] 




'OOD-MORNING, Doctor; how do you 
do? I hain't quite so well as I have 
been; but I think I'm some better than 
I was. I don't think that last medicine you gin 
me did me much good. I had a terrible time 
with the earache last night ; my wife got up and 
drapt a few draps of walnut sap into it, and that 
relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of 
sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week. 
Doctor, I've had the worst kind ot a narvous 
headache; it has been so bad sometimes that I 
thought my head would bust open. Oh, dear ! 
I sometimes think that I'm the most afilictedest 
human that ever lived. 

Since this cold weather sot in, that trouble- 
some cough, that I have had every winter for the 
last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin. 
(^Coughs.) Doctor, do you think you can give 



me anything that will relieve this desprit pain I 
have in my side? 

Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of 
my neck, so that I can't turn my head without 
turning the hull of my body. ( Coughs. ) 

Oh, dear! What shall I do? I have con- 
sulted almost every doctor in the country, but 
they don't any of them seem to understand my 
case. I have tried everything that I could think 
of; but I can't find anything that does me the 
leastest good. ( Coughs. ) 

Oh, this cough — it will be the death of me 
yet ! You know I had my right hip put out last 
fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw-mill; it's 
getting to be very troublesome just before we have 
a change of weather. Then I've got the sciatica 
in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled 
up that I can hardly crawl around in any fashion. 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



283 



What do you think that old white mare of ours 
did while I was out plowing last week? Why, 
the weacked old critter, she kept a backing and 
backing, ontill she backed me right up agin the 
colter, and knock' d a piece of skin off my shin 
nearly so big. ( Coughs. ) 

But I had a worse misfortune than that the 
other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day 
— and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in 
a little stove-wood — you know we lost our help 
lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to 
everything about the house herself. 

I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out — 
as it was a raining at the time — but I thought 



I'd risk it anyhow. So I went out, picked up a 
few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up 
the steps into the house, when my feet slipped, 
from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if 
I'd been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my 
face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my 
upper lip, and knocked out three of my front 
teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as 
you may suppose, and my face ain't well enough 
yet to make me fit to be seen, 'specially by the 
women folks. (^Coughs.') Oh, dear! but that 
ain't all. Doctor; I've got fifteen corns on my 
toes — and I'm afeard I'm a going to have the 
* •' yeller janders. ' ' ( Coughs, ) Dr. Valentine. 



THE CHICKENS. 



AID the first little chicken. 
With a queer little squirm, 
I wish I could find 
A fat little worm." 

Said the next little chicken, 
With an odd little shrug, 

**I wish I could find 
A fat Httle slug." 

Said the third little chicken, 
With a sharp little squeal, 

"I wish I could find 

Some nice yellow meal." 



Said the fourth little chicken. 
With a small sigh of grief, 

**I wish I could find 
A little green leaf. ' ' 

Said the fifth little chicken, 
With a faint little moan, 

**I wish I could find 
A wee gravel stone." 

*'Now, see here," said the mothet 
From the green garden patch, 

''If you want any breakfast. 
Just come here and scratch." 



AUNTY DOLEFUL'S VISIT. 



-^^OW do you do, Cornelia? I heard you 
rSy were sick, and I stepped in to cheer you 
\ up a little. My friends often say, ''It's 
such a comfort to see you. Aunty Doleful. You 
have such a flow of conversation and are so 
lively. ' ' Besides, I said to myself as I came up 
the stairs, ''Perhaps this is the last time I'll ever 
see Cornelia Jane alive." 

You don't mean to die yet, eh ? Well, now, 
how do you know? You can't tell. You think 
you're a gettin' better, but there was poor Mrs. 
Jones sitting up, and every one saying how 
saaart she was, and all of a sudden she was taken 



with spasms in the heart and went off like a 
flash. But you must be careful and not get 
anxious or excited. Keep quite calm, and don't 
fret about anything. Of course, things can't go 
jest as if you were down stairs ; and I wondered 
whether you knew your little Billy was saih'ng 
about in a tub on the mill-pond, and that your 
little Sammy was letting your little Jimmy 
a-down from the veranda roof in a clothes 
basket. 

Goodness? what's the matter? I guess Provi- 
dence '11 take care of 'em; don't look so. You 
thought Bridget was watchin' them ? No ; I 



284 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



saw her talking to a man at the gate. He looks 
to me like a burglar. There was a family at 
Knob Hill last week all killed for fifty dollars. 
Yes, indeed. Now, don' t fidget so ; it will be 
bad for the baby. 

Poor little dear ! How singular it is, to be 
sure, that you can't tell whether a child is blind, 
or deaf and dumb, or a cripple, at that age. It 
might be all and you'd never know it. Most of 
them that have their senses make bad use of them 
though ; that ought to be your comfort, if it 
does turn out to have anything dreadful the mat- 
ter with it. 

How is Mr. Knobble? Well, but finds it 
"varm in town, eh? Well, I should think he 
would. They are dropping down by hundreds 
there from sunstroke. You must prepare your 
mind for anything. Then, a trip on these rail- 
road trains is just a-riskin' your life every time 



you take one. Back and forth as he is, it's 
just a-triflin' with danger. Don't forget now, 
Cornelia, that the doctor said you must keep 
calm. 

Dear ! dear ! now to think what dreadful things 
hang over us all the time ! Oh dear ! Scarlet 
fever has broken out in the village, Cornelia. 
Little Isaac Porter has it, and I saw your Jimmy 
playing with him last Saturday. 

Well, I must be going now. I've got another 
sick friend, and I sha'n't think my duty done 
unless I cheer her up a little before I sleep. 
Good-bye. How pale you look, Cornelia. I 
don't believe you have a good doctor. Do send 
him away and get somebody else. You don't 
look as well as you did when I came in. 

If anything happens send for me at once. If 
I can't do anything else, I can cheer you up ^ 
littiC. Mary Kyle Dallas. 



MR. CAUDLE AND HI5 SECOND WIFE. 



W 



HEN Harry Prettyman saw the very su- 
perb funeral of Mrs. Caudle, — Pretty- 
man attended as mourner, and was 
particularly jolly in the coach, — he observed 
that the disconsolate widower showed, that, above 
all men, he knew how to make the best of a 
bad bargain. The remark, as the dear deceased 
would have said, was unmanly, brutal, but quite 
like fAe Prettyman. The same scoffer, when 
Caudle declared *^ he should never cease to weep," 
replied, ''he was very sorry to hear it; for it 
must raise the price of onions." It was not 
enough to help to break the heart of a wife ; no, 
the savage must joke over its precious pieces. 

The funeral we repeat, was remarkably hand- 
some : in Prettyman' s words, nothing could be 
more satisfactory. Caudle spoke of a monument. 
Whereupon Prettyman suggested "Death gath- 
ering a nettle." Caudle — the act did equal 
honor to his brain, and his bosom — rejected it. 

Mr. Caudle, attended by many of his friends, 
returned to his widowed home in tolerable spirits. 
Prettyman said, jocosely poking his two fingers 
in Caudle's ribs, that in a wee^^ ^'d look "quite 



like a tulip." Caudle merely replied, he could 
hardly hope it. 

Prettyman' s mirth however, communicated 
Itself to the company ; and in a very little time 
the meeting took the air of a very pleasant party. 
Somehow, Miss Prettyman presided at the table. 
There was in her manner a charming mixture of 
grace, dignity and confidence,- -a beautiful black 
swan. Prettyman, by the way, whispered to a 
friend, that there was just this difference between 
Mrs. Caudle and his sister, — "Mrs. Caudle was 
a great goose, whereas Sarah was a little duck. ' ' 
We will not swear that Caudle did not overhear 
the words ; for, as he resignedly stirred his tea, 
he looked at the lady at the head of the table, 
smiled and sighed. 

It was odd ; but women are so apt ! Miss 
Prettyman seemed as familiar with Caudle's sil- 
ver tea-pot as with her own silver thimble 
With a smile upon her face — like the butter on 
the muffins — she handed Caudle his tea-cup. 
Caudle would, now and then, abstractly cast his 
eyes above the mantle-piece. There was Mrs. 
Caudle's portrait. Whereupon Miss Prettymaa 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



285 



«»rouldsay, ''You must take comfort, Mr. Caudle, 
indeed you must." At length Mr. Caudle re- 
plied, ''I will, Miss Prettyman." 

What then passed through Caudle's brain we 
.know not; but this we know: in a twelvemonth 
and a week from that day, Sarah Prettyman was 
Caudle's second wife, — Mrs. Caudle number 
two. Poor thing ! 

Mr. Caudle begins to ^^ show off the fijnd thaf s 
in him, ' ' 

* * It is rather extraordinary, Mrs. Caudle, that 
we have now been married four weeks, — I don't 
exactly see what you have to sigh about, — and 
yet you can't make me a proper cup of tea. 
However, I don't know how I should expect it. 
There never was but one woman who could 
make tea to my taste, and she is now in heaven. 
Now, Mrs. Caudle, let me hear no crying. 
I'm not one of the people to be melted by the 
tears of a woman ; for you can all cry — all of 
you — at a minute's notice. The water's always 
laid on, and down it comes if a man only holds 
up his finger. 

* ' You didn't think I could be so brut a c .^ That ' s 
it. Let a man only speak, and he's brutal. 
It's a woman's first duty to make a decent cup 
of tea. What do you think I married you for ? 
It's all very well with your tambour-work and 
such trumpery. You can make butterflies on 
kettle-holders ; but can you make a pudding, 
ma'am? I'll be bound not. 

'' Of course, as usual, you've given me the 
corner roll, because you know I hate a corner 
roll. I did think you must have seen that. 
I did hope I should not be obliged to speak on 
so paltry a subject ; but it's no use to hope to 
be mild with you. I see that's hopeless. 



''And what a herring! And you call ft a 
bloater, I suppose ? Ha ! there was a woman 
who had an eye for a bloater, but — sainted 
creature ! — she's here no longer. You wish she 
was? Oh, I understand that. I'm sure, if 
anybody should wish her back, it's — but she was 
too good for me. 'When I'm gone, Caudle,' 
she used to say, 'then you'll know the wife I 
was to you.' And now I do know it. 

"Here's the eggs boiled to a stone again ! 
Do you think, Mrs. Caudle, I'm a canary-bird, 
to be fed upon hard eggs? Don't tell me about 
the servant. A wife is answerable to her hus- 
band for her servants. It's her business to hire 
proper people : if she doesn't, she's not fit to be 
a wife. I find the money, Mrs. Caudle, and I 
expect you to find the cookery. 

"There you are with your pocket-handker- 
chief again, — the old flag of truce ; but it 
doesn't trick me. A pretty honeymoon ? Honey- 
moon? Nonsense! People can't have two 
honeymoons in their lives. There are feelings 
— I find it now — that we can't have twice in our 
existence. There's no making honey a second 
time. 

"No : I think I've put up with your neglect 
long enough : and there's nothing like begin- 
ning as we intend to go on. Therefore, Mrs. 
Caudle, if my tea isn't made a little more to my 
liking to-morrow — and if you insult me with a 
herring like that — and boil my eggs that you 
might fire 'em out of guns — why, perhaps, Mrs. 
Caudle, you may see a man in a passion. It 
takes a good deal to rouse me, but when I am 
up — I say, when I am up — that's all. 

"Where did I put my gloves? Yom don* t 
know ? Of course not : you know nothing. ' ' 

Douglas Jerrold. ' 



A WOMAN'S POCKET. 



HE most difficult thing to reach is a 
woman's pocket. This is especially the 
case if the dress is hung up in a closet, 
and the man is in a hurry. We think we are 
safe in saying that he always is in a hurry on 



such an occasion. The owner of the dress is in 
the sitting-room serenely engrossed in a book. 
Having told him that the article which he is in 
quest of is in her dress pocket in the closet she 
has discharged her whole duty in the matter, 



286 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



and can afford to feel serene. He goes at the 
task with a dim consciousness that he has been 
there before, but says nothing. On opening 
the closet door and finding himself confronted 
with a number of dresses, all turned inside out, 
and presenting a most formidable front, he 
hastens back to ask *^ Which dress 2 " and being 
told the brown one, and also asked if she has so 
many dresses that there need be any great effort 
to find the right one, he returns to the closet 
mth alacrity, and soon has his hands on the 
brown dress. It is inside out like the rest, — a fact 
he does not notice, however, until he has made 
several ineffectual attempts to get his hand into 
it. Then he turns it around very carefully and 
passes over the pocket several times without 
knowing it. A nervous movement of his hands, 
and an appearance of perspiration oh his fore- 
head are perceptible. He now dives one hand 
in at the back, and feeling around, finds a place, 
and proceeds to explore it, when he discovers 
that he is following up the inside of a lining. 

The nervousness increases, also the perspira- 
tion. He twitches the dress on the hook, and 
suddenly the pocket, white, plump, and exas- 
perating, comes to view. Then he sighs the 
relief he feels and is mentally grateful he did not 
allow himself to use any offensive expressions. 
It is all right now. There is the pocket in plain 
view — not the inside but the outside — ^and all he 
has to do is to put his hand right around in the 
inside and take out the article. That is all. He 
can't help but smile to think how near he was 
to getting mad. Then he puts his hand around 
to the other side. He does not feel the opening. 
He pushes a little further — now he has got it; 
he shoves the hand down, and is very much sur- 
prised to see it appear opposite his knees. He 
had made a mistake. . 



He tries again ; again he feels the entrance 
and glides down it only to appear again as 
before. This makes him open his eyes and 
straighten his face. He feels of the outside of 
the pocket, pinches it curiously, lifts it up, 
shakes it, and after peering closely about the 
roots of it, he says, '* By Gracious ! " and com- 
mences again. He does it calmly this time, 
because hurrying only makes matters worse. He 
holds up breadth after breadth, goes over them 
carefully, gets his hand first into a lining, then 
into the air again (where it always surprises him 
when it appears), and finally into a pocket, and 
is about to cry out with triumph, when he dis- 
covers that it is the pocket to another dress. 

He is mad now ; the closet air almost stifles 
him ; he is so nervous he can hardly contain 
himself, and the pocket looks at him so exas- 
peratingly that he cannot help but ''plug" it 
with his clenched fist^ and immediately does it. 
Being somewhat relieved by this performance he 
has a chance to look about him, and sees that he 
has put his foot through a band-box and into the 
crown of his wife's bonnet ; has broken the brim 
of his Panama hat which was hanging in the 
same closet, and torn about a yard of bugle 
trimming from a new cloak. All this trouble is 
due directly to his wife's infatuation in hanging 
up her dresses inside out, so he immediately 
starts after her, and impetuously urging her to 
the closet, excitedly and almost profanely inti- 
mates his doubts of there being a pocket in the 
dress, anyway. 

The cause of the unhappy disaster quietly 
inserts her hand inside the robe, and directly 
brings it forth with the sought for article in its 
clasp. He doesn't know why, but this makes 
him madder than anything else. 

J. M. Bailey. 



BABY'S SOLILOQUY. 

[The following selection can be made very humorous if the person reading it assumes the tones of a very little child, and 

in appropriate places imitates the cry of a baby.] 



I 



AM here. And if this is what they call the 
world, I don't think much of it. It's a very 
flannelly world, and smells of paregoric 



awfully. It's a dreadful light world, too, and makes 
me blink, I tell you. And I don't know what to do 
with my hands. I think I'll dig my fists in my 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



:2S7 



eyes. No, I won't. I'll scratch at the corner 
of my blanket and chew it up, and then I'll 
holler; whatever happens, I'll holler. And the 
more paregoric they give me, the louder I'll 
yell. That old nurse puts the spoon in the 
corner of my mouth, sidewise like, and keeps 
tasting my milk herself all the while. She spilt 
snuff in it last night, and when I hollered, she 
trotted me. That comes of being a two-days- 
old baby. 

Nevermind; when I'm a man, I'll pay her 
back good. There's a pin sticking in me now, 
and if I say a word about it, I'll be trotted or 
fed ; and I would rather have catnip-tea. I'll 
tell you who I am. I found out to-day. I 



heard folks say, **Hush! don't wake up 
Emeline's baby;" and I suppose that pretty, 
white-faced woman over on the pillow is 
Emeline. 

No, I was mistaken ; for a chap was in here 
just now and wanted to see Bob's baby; and 
looked at me and said I was a funny little toad, 
and looked just like Bob, He smelt of cigars. 
I wonder who else I belong to ! Yes, there's 
another one — that * ' Gamma. " * ' It was Gamma' s 
baby, so it was." I declare, I do not know 
who I belong to ; but I'll holler, and maybe I'll 
find out. There comes snuffy witn catnip- 
tea. I'm going to sleep. I wonder why my 
hands won't go where I want them to ! 



A DISTURBED REVERIE. 



YING surpine on the soft, matted grasses. 

Gazing up lazily into the blue 
Of the sky, when the wandering wind as it 
passes 
Opens the branches for me to look through, 

Idly I ponder, and ponder, and ponder. 
Thinking of nothing, yet happy and free ; 

Careless of everything, idly I wonder 
At the immensity opened to me. 

Looking up listlessly, thoughtlessly dreaming, 

Mind a vacuity, life full of joy, 
All the dull world seems with happiness teeming, 

With nothing to worry, or fret, or annoy. 



Earth seems a paradise. Why should I trouble 

Or toil to win heaven? Why heaven is here! 
Fortune is worthless, tind fame but a bubble : 

I scorn them both, looking into the clear 
Deep blue of the sky, while the wild bees are 
humming, 

Above and around me, in harmony deep. 
And over the meadows the breezes are coming 

To fan me, and soothe me, and lull me to sleep. 

This, this is happiness, perfect, unmeasured ; 

Long shall this day, without blemish or fleck 
Stay in my memory, lovingly treasured — 

Great Scott! There's a wasp down the 
back of my neck ! 



A YANKEE IN LOVE. 




n 



NE day Sail fooled me; she heated the 
poker awful hot, then asked me to stir 
the fire. I seized hold of it mighty 
quick to oblige her, and dropped it quicker to 
oblige myself. Well, after the poker scrape, me 
and Sail only got on middlin' well for some 
time, till I made up my mind to pop the ques- 
tion, for I loved her harder every day, and I had 
an idea she loved me or had a sneaking kindness 
for me. But how to do the thing up nice and 
right pestered me orful. I bought some love 



books, and read how the fellers get down onter 
their knees and talk like poets, and how the 
girls would gently-like fall in love with them. 
But somehow or other that way didn't kinder 
suit my notion. I asked mam how she and dad 
courted, but she said it had been so long she 
had forgotten all about it. Uncle Jo said mam 
did all the courting. 

At last I made up my mind to go it blind, 
for this thing was fairly consumin' my mind; so 
I goes over to her dad's, and when I got there i 



k: 



288 



HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 



sot like a fool, thinkin' how to begin. Sail 
seed somethin' was troublin' me, so she said, 
says she, **An't you sick, Peter?" She said 
this mighty soft-like. **Yes; No!" sez I; 
*'that is, I an't zackly well. I thought I'd come 
over to-night," sez I. I tho't that was a mighty 
purty beginnin'; so I tried agin. " Sail," sez I 
-and by this time I felt kinder fainty about the 
stommuck and shaky about the knees — " Sail," 
sez I agin. '^What?" sez she. I'll get to it 
arter awhile at this rate, thinks I. ** Peter," 
says she, *' there's suthin' troublin' you; 'tis 
mighty wrong for you to keep it from a body, 
for an inard sorrer is a consumin' fire." She 
said this, she didy the sly critter. She knowed 
what was the matter all the time mighty well, 
and was only tryin' to fish it out, ^ut I was so 
far gone I couldn't see the point. 

At last I sorter gulped down the big lump 
a-risin' in my throat, and sez I, sez I, '*Sall, do 
you love anybody ? " ' ' Well, ' ' sez she, * * there' s 
dad and mam," and a-countin' of her fingers all 
the time, with her eyes sorter shet like a feller 
shootin' off a gun, **and there's old Pide (that 
were their old cow), and I can't think of any- 
body else just now," says she. Now, this was 
orful for a feller ded in love ; so arter awhile I 
tried another shute. Sez I, ' ' Sail, " sez I, ''Vva 
powerful lonesome at home, and sometimes think 
if I only had a nice, pretty wife to love and talk 
to, move, and have my bein' with, I'd be a 
tremendous feller." Sez I, **Sall," do you 
know any gal would keer for me?'' 

With that she begins, and names over all the 
gals for five miles around, and never once came 
nigh naming of herself, and sed I oughter git 
one of them. This sorter got my dander up, so 
I hitched my cheer up close to her, and shet my 
eyes and sed, '* SALL, you are the very gal I've 
been hankering arter for a long time. I love 
you all over, from the sole of your head to the 
crown of your foot, and I don't care who knows 



it, and if you say so we'll be jined together in 
the holy bonds of hemlock, Epluribusunum, 
world without end, amen ! " sez I ; and then I 
felt like I'd thro wed up an alligator, I felt so 
relieved. 

With that she fetched a sorter scream, and 
arter awhile sez, sez she, *' Peter ! " " What, 
Sally?" sez I. ^'YES!" sez she, a-hidin' oi 
her face behind her hands. You bet a heap, I 
felt good. ** Glory ! glory!" sez I, *'I must 
holler, Sail, or I shall bust. Hurrah for hooray ! 
I can jump over a ten-rail fence ! ' ' 

With that I sot right down by her and clinched 
the bargain with a kiss. Talk about your black- 
berry jam ; talk about your sugar and merlasses ; 
you wouldn't a got me nigh 'em — they would all 
a been sour arter that. Oh, these gals ! how 
good and bad, how high and low they make a 
feller feel! If Sail's daddy hadn't sung out 
'twas time all honest folks was abed, I'd a sot 
there two hours longer. 

You oughter seed me when I got home ! I 
pulled dad out of bed and hugged him ! I 
pulled mam out of bed and hugged her ! I 
pulled aunt Jane out of bed and hugged her ! 
I larfed and hollered, I crowed like a rooster, 
I danced round there, and I cut up more capers 
than you ever heerd tell on, till dad thought I 
was crazy, and got a rope to tie me with. 

*' Dad," sez I, *' I'm goin' to be married ! " 
** Married ! " bawled dad. '^ Married ! " 
squalled mam. *' Married'!" screamed aunt 
Jane. *' Yes, married," sez I; '* married all 
over, married for sure, married like a flash — 
joined in wedlock, hooked on for life, for worser 
or for better, for life and for death — to Sall. 
I am that very thing — me ! Peter Sorghum 
Esquire ! " 

With that I ups and tells 'em all about it from 
Alfer to Ermeger ! They was all mighty well 
pleased, and I went to bed as proud as a young 
rooster with his first spurs. Alf Burnett. 



ii 



Dialogues and Tableaux. 



YOUNG AMERICA. 

FOR FIVE SPEAKERS— THREE MALES AND TW ^ FEMALES. 



{Enter Harry 

ARRY. Young America, indeed ! One 
would have reason to suppose that phrase 
to be • a term of reproach, by the sneer 
with which it is spoken. A young fellow can 
not wear a new hat, handle a whalebone stick, or 
bow to a pretty girl without encountering a sly 
glance from some one, accompanied by the 
whisper of * ' Young America ! " 

George. No ; nor give an opinion, nor 
quote a learned author, nor drive a fast horse, 
without being dubbed '^You7tg America.'" I 
wonder what old America was like. I suppose 
ihey sat in their mammas' laps until they were 
twenty-one. 

(^Enter rvUNT Mary. ) 

Aunt Mary. Why, George, what is that 
you were saying? That you intend to sit in 
your mother's lap at twenty-one? 

Geo. Mo, indeed. Aunt Mary ; but do tell 
me what boys were like when you was a little 
girl. Did they never have any privileges, at 
all? and were they never allowed to hold an 
opinion ? 

Aunt M. To confess the truth, th:"n, my 
dear George, a boy was rather a differci : insti- 
tution in those days. He was always told that 
"children must be seen and not heard," which 
meant that he must not talk before his elders. 
He was not allowed to dine in company with his 
parents, unless the fare was very plain and whole- 
some. He was not dressed in the extreme of 
fashion, nor did he even wear a collar ; much 
less sport a watch and chain, or carry a ratan. 

Har. Glorious ! What a pretty set of 
"Jack Homers" they must have been. But 
you do not mean to say that m^' father was such 
19 



and George. ) 

a stupid, ill-dressea, spooney boy as that, to be 
led about by an apron string, and fed on bread 
ctnd milk ? 

Aunt M. Your father, Harry, was a modest, 
quiet, obedient boy ; very plainly dressed, and 
plainly fed ; accustomed to consult the wishes ot 
his parents, or brothers and sisters, before his 
own, without thinking it a hardship. 

Har. And now he is a noble and good man ; 
as brave and honorable as any one could ever be. 
I thought it made people mean-spirited to keep 
them in restraint. 

Aunt M. On the contrary, a proper restraint 
is the best discipline for young minds. Perhaps 
too Uttle is quite as injurious as too much. 

Geo. Didn't father have spending money, 
and didn't he wait upon the girls, or go to con- 
certs or parties ? 
{Enter George's Father ^/z^j-zV/^r Ellen.) 

Ellen. The way my brother George does. 
Did you, father? 

Father. Nonsense, children, do you expeci 
me to recollect such trifles ? I presume I did 
as other boys did ; but that was a great while 
ago. 

Geo. But Aunt Mary remembers about it. 
Come, now, father, tell us about your boy life. 

Fath. First let me know what makes you so 
curious ; you may be leading me blindfold into 
some unsuspected snare of confession. 

Aunt M. The boys are only a little vexed 
at having "Young America" thrown so often ii: 
their faces, as I understand it ; and are curious 
to know why. 

Har. Yes, and we want to know what yon 
were like when you w.ve a boy. 
- ---. 289 



290 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



Fatk. And so you think I must have been 
quite another sort of boy from one of you, do 
you ? Ha ! ha ! I suspect a boy is a boy in 
every age of the world pretty much the same. 
The only difference is in the opportunities of 
exhibiting the universal spirit of mischief and 
daring that makes him the notorious bugbear he is. 

Ellen. Oh, papa, you never did any mis- 
chief, did you ? How funny it is to think of 
you acting like Harry or George. 

Har. But it is not the mischief that people 
complain of. It is more because we try to be 
gentlemen ; and they act as if they thought we 
were out of our places — too forward — or some- 
thing of that sort. 

Aunt M. A little envious, perhaps, that they 
had not so many advantages in their youth. 

Fath. And not without some reason. The 
boys of this generation are as far advanced jat 
twelve or fifteen in study, manners, and dress, 
as their fathers were at twenty. But recollect 
when I say this, I give the boys themselves no 
special praise ; for it is by the efforts of these 
more slow and sure fathers of theirs that the 
means has been furnished for putting them for- 
ward. Money, schools, every convenience and 
luxury are furnished them now, from their very 
birth; and all they are required to do, is to 
make good use of these gifts. 

Aunt M. When your father went to school, 
he had to get up early and help about the work 
of a farm ; and he could never have time to 
study during the season of planting or harvest ; 
and in winter had to walk a long way 
through cold and snow to the academy, and 
carry his dinner along. 

Ellen. Did the little girls have to walk in 
the snow, too ? 

Fath. Certainly they did ; but the boys 
usually made paths for them. Until I saw your 
dear mamma, I was never more in love than I 
was with a pretty rosy-cheeked girl, whose din- 
ner-basket I used to carry while I went before 
and trod down the snow-banks for her. Some- 
times I carried her, too, if the path was very bad 
indeed. 



Geo. Ha ! ha ! I should think that wa? 
being gallant. I wonder if it would do for 
''Young America" to be carrying the girls to 
school. 

Ellen. Oh, I wish I had been a httle girl 
then, instead of now. It would have been so 
nice to go to school through the snow. 

Har. And be carried hy a boy ! 

Aunt M. Fie, fie, Harry — you must not 
tease your sister. You quite mistake hex mean- 
ing. Little girls always love the beautiful, pure 
snow ; and the country is the place to enjoy it. 

Har. Well, I don't see what can be done to 
make us like our fathers, unless we are placed in 
precisely the same circumstances. If I was born 
in town, instead of country; and with Httle 
instead of much to do ; and have learned mucn 
more in a few years than my father before me, 1 
can not see how I am to blame. 

Geo. I suppose the reason why boys did not 
then dress nicely, smoke cigars, and quo'-e plays, 
was just because they could not. 

Fath. Precisely. And now let me give you 
a little good advice, my sons. Cease to regard 
the jeers of the less favored ; but strive to appre- 
ciate the great advantages under which you are 
growing up. Make the most of all of them 
without vanity. Avoid any thing that looks like 
vite ; for the temptations to vice are just as 
much greater than they were in my day, as the 
opportunities to do well are more convenient. 
You see I take no credit for not possessing faults 
which I had no temptation to acquire, but it 
will be a positive merit in you if you contract 
no bad habits, where bad habits are so easily 
contracted ; and if you set an example to more 
thoughtless boys, you will already have com- 
menced to do good in this world. Do not be 
afraid to show your knowledge modestly ; and 
if somebody should occasionally insinuate that 
you are '' Young America," take it rather as an 
honor than otherwise, since the very name 
implies ''progress" and an unusual degree of 
advancement. 

Geo. I do not think, however, that is the 
way in whicl^ it is generally used. 



x31AL0GUES AND TABLEAUX. 



291 



Kllen. A^A the newspapers have so many pic- 
tures and anecdotes, all making sport of the boys. 

Har. Not leaving out the girls altogether, 
either^ if I remember rightly. 

Aunt 1^1. From which you may learn that 
forwardness -canity, and disrespect of superiors 
is not thougnt becoming, and thereby learn to 
avoid the ^.emptation to commit the same fault. 

Fath. Yes, these sarcasms are a little annoy- 
ing, but rightly construed are often very bene- 
ficial, since they help us to see ourselves as 
others see us, which is always to be desired. 

Har. Well, it is not fair to laugh at a boy 
before you know whether he deserves it or not. 
How do these people know but we may become 



greater and more useful than any generation be- 
fore us. Because just now there seems nothing 
for us to do but what is perfectly easy, it is not 
to be presumed that we are incapable of any 
severe duties. The hearts of '* Young America " 
are as strong and brave, their souls as resolute, 
and their hands as ready as those of their fathers 
before them. But give us an opportunity to 
show our spirit, and you will find us no carpe* 
knights, no selfish, dawdhng sensuists, but men 
of nerve and will, who are prepared to meet 
whatever emergency the future may have in store 
for us. You see Young America as a boy ; by- 
and-by you shall behold him as a man. 

Mrs. T. Starr King. 



THE DESTINY OF THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE. 

a historical drama and tableau, 
for five speakers four females and one male. 

[This exquisite drama and tableau is designed for the parlor or exhibition, and when well produced, cannot fail of producing 
^he most pleasing eflfect. All that is required is a drop or slide curtain in order to present the tableaux properly to the audience. 
The dresses may be as the taste dictates, though it would be productive of the best effects if the characters of Josephine a ad 
Cleopatra were in appropriate and imperial costumes.] 

(^Enter Josephine.). 



JOSEPHINE. This is a beautiful world ! 
>^l These verdant hills, this azure heaven, this 
VSf tranquil sea ! Why, then, oh my soul, the 
feverish unrest ? No sorrow ever darkened thy 
heaven, orstirred thy slumbering depths. The days 
and nights are filled with the presence of peace — 
delightful presence, whose power fails me now ! 
Is this a presentiment which haunts me ! Are 
these longings that fill my soul a premonition of 
that mysterious future whose secrets I so much 
'. wish to know ? Oh, verdant hills ! Oh, azure 
\ neaven ! Oh, summer sea \ have you no answer 
for me ? 

(^Enier old Prophetess.) 
Prophetess. Why tempt thy fate? Evils 
come soon enough when we can no longer keep 
in ignorance of them. 

Jose. Is my fate, then, an evil one? You 
terrify me ! Perhaps I have been too importu- 
nate with Fate, and she has awarded me evil for 
my curiosity. 



Proph. Destinies are born with the soul that 
bears them ; we can neither win them by seeking, 
nor lose them by evading. We may, however 
learn them before we are able to meet them with 
dignity or firmp'^^ss. 

Jose Alas ! I hope x have not done wrong 
in coveting a knowledge of the future. Often 
at night my sleepless eyes have wandered to one 
bright particular star, and my thoughts have 
gone unbidden onward into time that is not yet, 
with an eager inquiry after joys or sorrows that 
are to be my own, but chiefly I have fancied 
happiness to be my lot, and have called that star 
mifie, because it is peculiarly bright and glorious. 

Proph. {Taking her hand.) Thou hast 
indeed said well. That star is thine — the star of 
destiny. Pure, bright, and constant, it is an 
emblem of thyself ; superior to its fellows, it is 
again a true type of thy fortunes. That st?i 
shall be thy guide — never forsake it ; it will lead 
thee to glory and — 



Iv... 



292 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



Jose. To happiness ! You do not say to 
\iappiness, good mother; can you not add to 
happiness ! 

Proph. I can add nothing, nor take away 
anything. It is written in the book of fate. 
Do thy duty, daughter, according to thine own 
heart; no more can' st thou do ; nor L 

Jose. Only an hour ago I was all impatience 
to know what now I shrink from asking. Good 
mother, I will not tempt my fate. 

Proph. Nay, now, I have a message to thee. 
A.rt thou fond of power ? 

Jose. Truly, I think I should love to be an 
empress. But I may be wrong, for I never saw 
even a queen or princess, and I know not their 
real estate. 

Proph. Then I will show it thee. What one 
cf all the hapless daughters of glory wouldst thou 
xuestion? 

Can I see whom I will? 
Yes, whom thou wilt. 
Then I would question Egypt's glorious 



Behold, she comes! 
(^Enter Cleopatra.) 
Why am I called? 
To teach this child of fate the bane 



Jose. 
Proph. 
Jose. 
queen. 
Proph, 

Cleo. 

Proph. 
of power. 

Cleo. And to what purpose? She will learn 
enough when learn she must. Till then let her 
soul rest in peace. 

Proph. 'Tis her own will ; tell her what she 
desires to know. If thou canst make her in love 
with princely fortune^, so much the better. 

Cleo. ( Turning to Jose. ) Fair girl, what 
can I teach thee? 

Jose. The pleasures of empire, oh most noble 
queen ! 

Cleo. ' What are they? Pangs, thou hadst 
better said. Yet have I not been happy ! Egypt, 
my glorious country, thou wert dearer to me than 
life ; even than such a splendid life as mine. I 
had all things that mortals can enjoy — youth, 
beauty, health, genius, wealth, and greatness; 
more than all these together, I had love; and 



more than all other loves, I had the love of 
Antony. 

JosEo Alas, great queen ! that enemies should 
have robbed thee of all these. 

Cleo. My queenly station was my greatest 
enemy. Had I been poor and humble no one 
had envied me, and I had lived and loved. My 
greatness was but the means of my humiliation. 
Envy, ingratitude, and treachery are the constant 
attendants in palaces; they are the assassins who 
bear the poisoned cup, or strike with concealed 
weapons at your reputation, your peace, your 
life. Ohj my country, my beautiful Egypt, not 
even among thy sons and daughters could Cleo- 
patra be sure of her friends; how then shall she 
condemn the haughty, impious Roman, who 
would have dragged her, chained, through the 
streets of the all-conquering city ? Egypt was 
lost — liberty — love — everything ! but Cleopatra 
was not degraded by the consummation of that 
art. 

Proph. Be calm, Cleopatra, and give this 
m.aiden counsel for her guidance in the dangerous 
paths of greatness. Have you nothing to say 
but vainly to deplore your own misfortunes? 

Cleo. It is enough. Whose misfortunes can 
I testify to,, so well as my own? It were as well 
to teach the maiden nothing, for experience is 
the only guide ever treated with respect by mor- 
tals. Let her learn for herself. Farewell. 
{^Retreats fro7n stage. ") 

Proph. Art thou content? 

Jose. Alas, there is little contentment in 
what I have heard ; but this queen was unfortu- 
nate; let me see one who was happier. 

Proph. Didst ever hear of a happy one? If 
so, thou shalt speak with her, at the mention of 
her name. 

Jose. Let Elizabeth appear. 
(^Ente?' Elizabeth.) 

Eliz. Behold, here am I, whom you think 
fortunate. I ruled a powerful empire; I was a . 
rich and haughty woman — a popular sovereign- 
a benefactor of my people. I had a long lif| 
full of successes ; feared by my enemies, dreadec 
by my flatterers, worshiped by my friends. Was? 




THE GODDESS OF LIBERTY 

(Sugjjrestion For Tableau) 






RECITATION IN COSTUME 

WHOEVER WOULD BRING DOWN HER GAME, 
MUST STRING HER BOW AND TAKE SURE AIM. 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



293 



I not happy? Witness my sighs and tears, my 
groaning and rage, my impotent struggles against 
my unlovely destiny. Neither wealth, power, 
nor popularity could keep a lover true. Was I 
not devoured with envy and jealousy? and did I 
not at last destroy my fondest friends? Every 
thing is at enmity with greatness; the world 
always suspects its designs, and its most abject 
slaves are its most unconquerable foes. 

Jose. Is all then false and hollow? Is not 
goodness rewarded in the great as well as in the 
humble? 

Eliz. Did I not do good? Answer me, thou 
mighty empire, in which the days of **Good 
Queen Bess ' ' are yet remembered ! Plotted 
against by enemies and courtiers alike^ while I 
lived; defamed by history now that I can no 
longer resent accusation ; this is what has been 
my reward. 

Jose. Truly, I am put out of love with great- 
ness. I shall be better content with an humble 
^ife, Tom having heard thy sorrows, noble lady. 
I pray thee, let not my curiosity harrow up thy 
woes. Peace to thy soul, Elizabeth. 

(Elizabeth retreats.') " 

pROPH. Hast thou lost thy courage, maiden? 

Jose. The innocent are always brave, good 
mother : I know not what to fear. Come, I will 
prove my courage by asking of you my fate. 
iovy have bidden me trust in my star, and it 
promises my heart much joy. I can not be 
unhappy, it being my nature to rejoice; there- 
fore, good mother, tell me what wonderful for- 
tune awaits me. 

Proph. Thus mortals ever trifle with matters 
of great imports Girl, thou shalt be twice mar- 
ried, twice a widow, and the Empress of France ! 

Jose. Heavens ! the witch is angry, and is 
making a jest of me ! 

Proph. Thou wilt find it serious jesting in 
good time. 

Jose. Pardon me, mother, if my too-won- 
derful fortunes could not at once be believed. I 
now feel that it may indeed be true ; for I 
remember how often and often I have played at 
mimic royalty when a child. It was the voice 



of my destiny making itself heard in my soul. 
Farewell, mother, I would take time to pray. 

( Curtain falls. ) 

(^Curtain rises ^ and Josephine appears upon 
the stage with Eugene cfnd Hortense, in tears. ) 

Jose. My poor children, you feel my woes 
too deeply. How can I comfort you ? But be 
not angry with the Emperor; he loves us all. 
He has wounded us and himself for the welfare 
of France. My poor, fainting Hortense, let us 
be as heroic, as our circumstances require that 
we should be. And you, Eugene, remain faith- 
ful to the Emperor. 

EuG. Mother. ". only think of you ! 

JosF Think jnly of France, and the Emv 
peror. 

HoRT. Has France or the Emperor a right 
to demand this sacrifice ? 

Jose. It being demanded, I have no powet 
t: disobey. I have fulfilled my destiny and xiow 
think only of you, my dear children, of France, 
and of Napoleon. Forget not what is required 
of you — that you should remember the Em- 
peror's will and )^our mother's honor. 

EuG. It is the blow to our mother's honor 
which we cannot forget. Oh, France, why have" 
you asked this of Napoleon? Oh, Napoleonj 
why have you required it of Josephine ? 

Jose. Be composed, my son, my honor will 
not suffer except by your disobedience. Do not 
feel too bitterly about this matter. I am the 
child of an unalterable destiny, which now is 
well-nigh all accomplished. The star of fate 
which led me on, has never forsaken me, but I 
feel that its light is withdrawn from the pathway 
of the Emperor ; and henceforth I must pray for 
him constantly, that he may be sustained in his 
present position, and that no harm may come to 
him, either in person or power. 

HoRT. Alas, I wish we had all died in the 
Revolution. None of us ever can be happy 
again. 

Jose. That is a weak and foolish wish, my 
Hortense. When I was in prison, the othei 
unhappy l^die* were astonished at my com* 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



posure. '^To-morrow you will be dragged to 
the guillotine," they said to me, but I smiled at 
their apprehensions. The guillotine is not for 
me, I told them, but the crown of France. 
VVlien I was married to Napoleon, I knew I must 
be again a widow. When I became Empress I 
still remembered my inevitable sorrow, and my 
prayers followed Napoleon in all his terrible cam- 
paigns, as if it were possible to thwart my 
destiny. When I was asked to consent to be 
divorced, after the first deep agony was over, I 
said it IS best to be so, for now shall I be the 
widow while my lord yet lives. Had it been 
otherwise. Napoleon must have died. 

HoRT. And you would have been Regent of 
France. 

Jose. While now, I am still Empress ! 

EuG. Dear mother, you are indeed Empress of 
France, though Napoleon were to wed the fairest 
flower of royalty ; and though an heir should be 
born to his throne, yet nothing can displace you 
in the hearts of the people, who know your 



more than royal virtues. There at least you have 
an empire, and your title is not an empty one. 

Jose. Then let us be content. Before I had 
taken my first step toward greatness, I was 
warned of its price. When I found myseli 
upon the road, I determined never to falter or 
turn back. Heaven has suffered me to do a 
little good by first making me great, and has 
granted me more than a common degree oi 
happiness along with my responsibilitieSo If 
now 1 am deprived of my greatest happiness, 
while the power to do good is still left to me, 
shall I lose myself in a hopeless despair? Rather, 
my children, let us pray for patience. 

HoRT. It is your heavenly forbearance thai 
is breaking our hearts. 

EuG. If our mother were less virtuous, hei 
trial would not appeal to us so tenderly. 

Jose. Oh, Heaven, who hast taken away so 
much, and left so much untaken, grant us Th3f 
blessed peace ! ( Curtain falls > ) 

Mrs. Frances Fuller Barritt, 



MARY MALONEY'S PHILOSOPHY. 

Mary Maloney singing at her work. Enter Miss Allworthy. 




ISS ALLWORTHY. What are you 
singing for? 
Mary Maloney. O, I don't know, 
ma'am, without it's because my heart feels happy. 

Miss A. Happy, are you, Mary Maloney? 
Let me see; you don't own a foot of land in 
the world. 

Mary. Ha, ha! Foot of land is it? O, 
what a hand ye be after joking! Why, I haven't 
a penny, let alone the land. 

Miss A. Your mother is dead. 

Mary. God rest her soul, yes; may the 
angels make her bed in heaven ! 

Miss A. Your brother is still a hard case, I 
suppose. 

Mary. Ah, you may well say that. It's 
nothing but drink, drink, drink, and beating his 
poor wife that she is, the creature ! 

Miss A. You have to pay your little sister's 
board. 



Mary. Sure, the bit creature, and she's a 
good little girl, is Hinny, willing to do whatever 
I axes her. I don' t grudge the money what goes 
for that. 

Miss A. You haven' t many fashionable dresses 
either, Mary Maloney. 

Mary. Fashionable, is it? O yes, I put a 
green belt around my waist, and me calico 
gown looks as fine as the great ladies' . But then 
ye says true, I hasn't but two gowns to me back, 
two shoes to me feet, and one bonnet to me 
head, barring the old hood ye gave m.e. 

Miss A. You haven't any lover, Mary Ma- 
loney. 

Mary. O, be off wid ye ! Ketch Mary Ma- 
loney getting a lover these days, when the hard 
times is come. No, no; thank heaven I haven't 
got that to trouble me yet, nor I don't want it. 

Miss A. What on earth, then, have you to 
make you happy? A worthless brother, a pool 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



295 



helpless sister, no mother, no father, no lover; 
why, where do you get all your happiness 
from? 

Mary. The Lord be praised, miss, it growed 
up in me. Give me a bit of sunshine, a clean 
flure, plenty of work, and a sup at the right time. 



and I'm made. That makes me laugh and sing, 
and then if deep trouble comes, why, God helpin' 
me, I'll try to keep my heart up. Sure it would be 
a sad thing if Patrick McGrue should take it into 
his head to come an ax me, but, the Lord willin', 
I'd try to bear up under it. 



RECIPE FOR POTATO PUDDING. 

Mrs. Philemon, Mrs. Darling, Mrs. Mudlaw, Colonel Philemon. 

Scene, Mrs. Philemon's sitting-room. 

Present, Mrs . Philemon . Enter Mrs . Darling. 




PHILEMON. Delighted to see 
Mrs. Darling. Walk into the 
parlor, if you please. 

Mrs. Darling. No, thank you, Mrs. Phile- 
mon ; I'd as «Don sit here. I can only stay a 
moment. I called to ask a recipe for potato 
pudding. Mr. Darling tasted one when he dined 
with Colonel Philemon, and liked it so much 
that he wished me to get directions for mak- 
ing it. 

Mrs. P. Potato pudding ? Ah, yes, I recollect. 
Mudlaw, my cook, does make me a very good 
plain thing that she calls a potato pudding ; but 
I know nothing about her manner of preparing 
it. I will call her, however, and she shall tell 
you herself. {^Steps to the door of the adjoining 
room.') Mrs. Mudlaw, step here a moment if 
you please. {Enter Mrs. Mudlaw.) What 
do you think, Mrs. Mudlaw ! Mrs. Darling 
has come to learn how to make potato pudding. 

Mrs. D. Yes, I would be obliged to you for 
the directions. ( Takes out of her pocket a pencil 
and paper to write them down. ) 

Mrs. Mudlaw. Well, 't is an excellent 
puddin' ; for my part, I like it about as well as 
any puddin' that I make, and that's sayia'v^. 
good deal, I can tell you, for I understand 
makin' a great variety. 'T ain't so awful rich 
as some, to be sure. Now, there's the Cardi- 
nelle puddin', and the Washington puddin', and 
the I^y Fayette puddin', and the — 

Mrs. D. Yes, Mr. Darling liked it very 
much ; how do you make it ? 



Mrs. M. Wal, I peel my potaters and bile 
'em in fair water. I always let the water bile 
before I put 'em in. Some folks let their pota- 
ters lie and sog in the water ever so long, before 
it biles; but I think it spiles 'em. I always 
make it a pint to have the water bile— 

Mrs. D. How many potatoes ? 

Mrs. M. Wal, I always take about as many 
potaters as I think I shall want. I'm generally 
governed by the size o' the puddin' I want to 
make. If it's a large puddin', why I take quite 
a number, but if it's a small one, why, then I 
don't take as many. As quick as they're done, 
I take 'em up and mash 'em as fine as I can get 
'em. I'm always very partic'lar about that, — 
some folks ain't; they'll let their potatoes be 
full o' lumps, /never do ; if there's anything 
I hate, it's lumps in potaters. I won' t have 'em. 
Whether I'm mashin' potaters for puddin 's or 
for vegetable use, I mash it till there ain't the 
size of a lump in it. If I can't git it fine with- 
out sifting, why I sift it. Once in a while, 
when I'm otherways engaged, I set the girl to 
mashin' on 't. Wal, she'll give it three or four 
jams, and come along, *'Miss Mudlaw, is the 
potater fine enough ? ' ' Jubiter Rammin ! that's 
the time I come as near gittin' mad as I ever 
allow myself to come, for I make it a pint never 
to have lumps — 

Mrs. D. Yes, I know it is very important. 
What next ? 

Mrs. M. Wal, then I put in my butter ; in 
winter time I melt it a little, not enough to 



296 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



make it ily, but jest so's to soften it. I always 
lok well to my butter. 

Mrs. D. How much butter does it require ? 

Mrs. M. Wal, I always take butter accordin' 
to the size of the puddin' ; a large puddin' 
needs a good-sized lump o' butter, but not too 
much. And I'm always partic'lar to have my 
butter fresh and sweet. Some folks think it's no 
matter what sort o' butter they use for cookin', 
but /don't. Of all things I do despise strong, 
frowy, rancid butte, - For pity's sake, have 
your butter fresh. * 

Mrs. D. How much butter did you say ? 

Mrs. M. Wal, that depends, as I said before, 
on what sized puddin' you make. And another 
thing that regulates the quantity of butter I 'use 
is the 'mount o' cream I take. I always put in 
more or less cream. When I have abundance o' 
cream, I put in considerable, and when it's 
scarce, why, I use more butter than I otherways 
should. But you must be partic'lar not to get 
In too much cream. There's a great deal in 
havin' jest the right quantity ; and so 't is with 
all the ingrejiences. There ain' t a better puddin' 
in the world than a potater puddin' when it's 
made right, but 'taint everybody that makes 'em 
right. I remember when I lived in Tucker- 
town, I was a visitin' to Squire Humprey's one 
time, — I went in the first company in Tucker- 
town ; dear me ! this is a changeable world. — 
Wal, they had what they called a potater 
puddin' for dinner. Good land ! Of all the 
puddin' s ! I've often occurred to that puddin' 
since, and wondered what the Squire's wife was 
a thinkin' of when she made it. I wa'n't 
obleeged to do no such things in them days, and 
dident know how to do anything as well as I do 
now. Necessity's the mother of invention. 
, Experience is the best teacher, after all — 

Mrs. D. Do you sweeten it ? 

Mrs. M. O yes, to be sure it needs sugar, 
the best o' sugar too; not this wet, soggy brown 
sugar. Some folks never think o' usin' good 
sugar to cook with, but for my part I won't have 
no other. 

Mrs. D. How much sugar do» you talse? 



Mrs. M. Wal, that depends altcjgether on 
whether you calculate to have sass for it, — some 
like sass, you know, and then some agin don't. 
So, when I calculate for sass, I don't take so 
much sugar; and when I don't calculate for 
sass, I make it sweet enough to eat without sass. 
Poor Mr. Mudlaw was a great hand for puddin' 
sass. I always made it for him, — ^good, rich 
sass, too. I could afford to have things rich 
before he was unfortunate in bizness. 

Mrs. P. (^aside.) Mudlaw went to State's 
prison for horse-stealing. 

Mrs. M. I like sass myself, too ; and the 
curnel and the children are all great sass hands ; 
and so I generally calculate for sass, though Miss 
Philemon prefers the puddin' without sass, and 
perhaps ji/<?2/'^ prefer it without. If so you must 
put in sugar accordingly. I always make it a 
pint to have 'em sweet enough when they're to 
be eat without sass. 

Mrs. D. And don't you use eggs? 

Mrs. M. Certainly, eggs is one o' the prin- 
cipal ingrejiences. 

Mrs. D. How many does it require? 

Mrs. M. Wal, when eggs is plenty, I always 
use plenty ; and when they're scarce, why I can 
do with less, though I'd ruther have enough; 
and be sure and beat 'em well. It does distress 
me, the way some folks beat eggs. I always 
want to have 'em thoroughly beat for everything 
I use 'em in. It tries my patience most awfully 
to have anybody round me that won't beat eggs 
enough. A spell ago we had a darkey to help 
in the kitchen. One day I was a makin' sponge 
cake, and havin' occasion to go up stairs after 
something, I sot her to beatin' the eggs. Wal, 
what do you think the critter done ? Why, she 
whisked 'em round a few times, and turned right 
onto the other ingrejiences that I'd got weighed 
out. When I come back and saw what she'd 
done, my gracious ! I came as nigh to losin' my 
temper as I ever allowed myself to come. 'Twas 
awful provokin' ! I always want the kitchen help 
to do things as I want to have 'em done. But I • 
never saw a darkey yet that ever done anything 
right. Tliey'ue a la^y, slaughtecin' set* To 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



297 



think o' her spilin* that cake so, when I'd told 
her over and over agm that I always made it- a 
})int to have my eggs thoroughly beat? 

Mrs. D. Yes, it was too bad. Do you use 
fruit in the pudding ? 

Mrs. M. Wal, that's jest as you please. 
You'd better be governed by your own judgment 
as to that. Some like currants and some like 
raisins, and then again some don't like nary one. 
If you use raisins, for pity's sake pick out the 
Stuns. It's awful to have a body's teeth come 
grindin' onto a raisin stun. I'd rather have my 
ears boxt any time. 

Mrs. D. How many raisins must I take ? 

Mrs. M. Wal, not too many, — it's apt to 
make the puddin' heavy, you know ; and when 
it's heavy it ain't so light and good. I'm a 
great hand — 

Mrs. D. Yes, what do you use for flavoring ? 

Mrs. .'d;. There agin you'll have to exercise 
your own /-"dgment. Some likes one thing and 
some another, you know. If you go the whole 
figger on temperance, why some other kind o' 
"^avyrin' '11 do as well as wine or brandy, I 
Vpose. But whatever you make up your mind 
to use, be particular to git in a sufficiency, or 
else your puddin' '11 be flat. I always make it a 
pint — 

Mrs. D. How long must it bake ? 

Mrs. M. There's the great thing after all. 
The bakin's the main pint. A potater puddin', 
of all puddin' s, has got to be baked jest right. 
For if it bakes a leetle too much, it's apt to dry 
M}) ; and then agin, if it don't bake quite enough, 
iC s sure to taste potatery — and that spiles it, you 
know. 

Mrs. D. How long should you think ? 

Mrs. M. Wal, that depends a good deal on 
the heat o' your oven. If you have a very hot 
oven, 'twon't do to leave it in too long ; and if 
your oven ain't so very hot, why, you'll be 
necessiated to leave it in longer. 

Mrs. D. Well, how can I tell anything 
about it ? 

Mrs. M. Well, I always let them bake till I 
think they're done, — that's the safest way. I 



make it a pint to have 'em baked exactly right. 
It's very important in all kinds o' bakin', — 
cake, pies, bread, puddin' s, and everything, — 
to have 'em baked precisely long enough and 
jest right. Some folks don't seem to have no 
system at all about their bakin'. One time 
they'll burn their bread to a crisp, and then 
agin it'll be so slack 'taint fit to eat. Nothin' 
hurts my feelin's so much as to see things over- 
done or slack-baked. Here only t'other day, 
Lorry, the girl that Miss Philemon dismissed 
yesterday, come within an ace o' letting my 
bread burn up. My back was turned for a 
minnit, and what should she do but go to stuffin* 
wood into the stove at the awfullest rate ? If I 
hadent a found it out jest when I did, my bread 
would a ben sp'ilt as sure as I'm a live woman. 
Jubiter Rammin ! I was about as much decom- 
posed as I ever allow myself to git ! I told 
Miss Philemon I wouldn't stan' it no longer, — 
one of us must quit, — either Lorry or me must 
walk. 

Mrs. D. So you've no rule about making 
this pudding? 

Mrs. M. {intensely surprised. ) No rule ! 

Mrs. D. Yes, you seem to have no rule for 
anything about it. 

Mrs. M. {starting up indignantly') . No rule I 
{Planting herself in front of yi'Bs. D. and extend- 
ing her forefinger very near that lady^ s nose.) 
No rules ! do you tell me I've no rules! Me! 
that's cooked in the first families for fifteen years, 
and always gin' satisfaction, to be told by such 
z.'s, you that I hain't no rules! 

Mrs. P. Mrs. Mud law .f Don't be excited. 
{A step is heard). Ah, there comes my hus- 
band! He'll put a stop to this. 

^;?/^r Colonel Philemon. Mrs. M. casts a 
look of ineffable disgust at Mrs. D., and retreats 
from the room. 

Colonel Philemon {to his wife). Matilda, 
my dear, this is quite an unexpected pleasure, 
for really {turning to Mrs. D.), Mrs. Darling, 
we began to fear that you did not intend to 
cultivate us. 

Mrs. D. I cannot say I came for just that 



fds 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



t.iurposf; this time. I came on an errand, and 
your cook has got very angry with me for some 
reason, I scarcely know what. 

Mrs. p. Poor Mudlaw! I don't think she 
n';ended to be rude. 

Col. p. What ! has the cook been rude to 
\irs. Darhng? 

Mrs. p. Not rude exactly, dear; but you 
icnow bhe is so sensitive about everything con- 
nected with her department, and she fancied 
that Mrs. Darling called her skill into question, 
nd became somewhat excited. 

Mrs. D. QmU excited, I should call it. 
y Smiling. ) 

Col. p. And she has dared to treat Mrs. 
Darling rudely I Shameful! disgraceful I the 



wretch shall suffer for it ! To think that a Jady 
like Mrs. Darling should be insulted by a cooki 
in my house, too! She shall troop forthwith' 
Mrs. Darling, I regret extremely — 

Mrs. D. O, no apology, Colonel Philemon! 

Col. p. Won't you walk into the parlor? 

Mrs D. Thank you. I really had but i 
moment to spare; I must beg you to excuse me» 
Good morning. 

Col. and Mrs. P. Good morning. 

Mrs. D. {aside). Well, If I have not learned 
how to make potato pudding, I have gained 
something. I shall go home better satisfied 
than e.ver with my own cook, — both in her work 
and her disposition, 

F. M. Whicher. 



THE RIVAL ORATORS. 

Thomas Trotter, a large boy with a big voice, and Samuel Sly, a small boy whose voca ' organ h 

pitched on a high key. 

Scene, the platform of a School-room. 

Thomas enters and makes his bow to the audience, followed by Samuel, who goes through the same 

ceremony a little in his rear. 

>0M {turning partially round'). What do 

you want here ? 
Sam. I want to speak my piece, to be sure. 

T. Well, you will please to wait until / get 
through; it's my turn now. 

S. No, it isn't your turn, either, my learned 
friend ; excuse me for contradicting, but if I 
don't stand up for my rights, nobody else will. 
My turn came before that fellow's who said *'his 
voice was still for war; " but 1 couldn't think 
bow my speech began then, and he got the start 
of me. 

T. Very well ; if you were not ready when 
your turn came, that's your fault, and not mine. 
Go to your seat, and don't bother me anymore. 

S. Well, that's cool, I declare, — as cool as a 
load of ice in February. Can't you ask some 
other favor, Mr. Trotter ? 

T. Yes ; hold your tongue. 

S. Can't do that ; I'm bound to get off my 
speech first. You see it's running over like a 



bottle of beer, and I can't Tceep it in. So here 
goes : 

' ' My name is Norval ; on the Grampian HilU 
My father feeds — " 

T. {interrupting him, conunences his piece in a 
loud tone. ) *' Friends, Romans, countrymen ! '* 

S. Greeks, Irishmen, and fellow-sojers ! 

T. " Lend me your ears. " 

S. Don't you do it ; he's got ears enough of 
his own. 

T. **I come to bury Caesar, not to praise 
him." 

S. {mimicking his gestures.) I come tt< 
speak my piece, and I'll do it, Caesar oi no 
Caesar. *'My name is Norval — ^" ' 

T. {advancing towards him in a threatening^ 
attitude. ) .Sam Sly, if you don't stop your fool- 
ing I'll put you off the stage. 

S. {retreating.) Don't, don't you touch 
me, Tom ; you'll joggle my piece all out ol mt ^ 
again. 



DIALOGUES AND TAB.LEAUX^ 



299 



T, Well, then, keep still until I get through. 
( Turns to the audience). 

' * Friends, Romans, countrymen ! lend me 
your ears; 

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him." 

S J say. Tommy, what are you bl-a-a-a-r-t- 
ng about; have you lost your calf? 

T. ' ' The evil that men do lives after them. 
The good is oft interred with their bones. 
So let it be with Caesar. ' ' 
lie is again brought to a sta7id by Sam, who is 

standing behind him, mimicking his gestures in 

a ludicrous manner. 
Now, Sam, I tell you to stop your monkey 
shines; if you don'r, I'll make you! 

S. You stop spouting about Caesar, then, and 
let me have my say. You needn't think you 
can cheat me out of my rights because you wear 
higher-heeled shoes than I do. 

T. I can tell you one thing, sir, — nothing 
but your size saves you from a good flogging. 

S. Well, that is a queer coincidence, lo^ I 
can tell you that nothing but your size saves you, 
from a good dose of Solomon's panacea. ( To 
the audience.) I don't know what can be done 
with such a long legged fellow, — he's too big to 
be whipped, and he isn't big enough to behave 
himself. Now, ali keep still, and let me begin 
again : * ' My name is Norval — ' ' 

T ''I come to bury Caesar — " 

S. I thought you'd buried him once, good 
deeds, bones, and all ; how many more times 
are you going to do it ? 

T. Sam, I'm a peaceable fellow; but if you 
go much further I won't be responsible for the 
consequences. 

S. I'm iox piece f too, but it's 7ny piece, and 
not your long rigmarole about Caesar, that I go 
•:n for. As I said before, '^ My name is — " 

T. '^The noble Brutus 

Hath told you Caesar was ambitious ; 
If it were so, it was a grievous fault. 
And giievouslyhath Caesar answered it." 

S. (^in a low whisper.) I say, Tom, did you 
know you had got a hole in your unwhisperables ? 



T. " Here, under leave of Brutus, and thoi 
rest, 
(For Brutus is an honorable man — 
So are they all, all honorable men») 
Come I to speak at Cesar's funeral.'* 

S. This isn't Caesar's funeral,- — it's the ex- 
hibition of the Spankertown Academy, and it''*, 
my turn to officiate, so get out with Caesar.— 
** My name is Nor — " 

T. '* He was my friend, faithful and just 
to me ; 

But Brutus says he was ambitious; 
And Brutus is an honorable man." 

S. Brutus be hanged ; who cares for what he 
said? Come, you've sputtered enough; now 
give me a chance to say something. My name 
is—" 

T. Come, Sammy, ^^7/2'/ interrupt me again, 
that's a Ciever fellov/. Let me finish my piece, 
and Jien you shall have the whole platform to 
}'Ourself. 

S. You're very kind, Mr. Trotter, — al 
together too kind ! Your generosity reminds 
me of an Irish gentleman, who couldn't live 
peaceably with his wife, and so they agreed to 
divide the house between them. ' ' Biddy, ' ' says 
he, '^ye'll jist be afther taking the outside of 
the house, and I'll kape the inside." 

T. (/(? the audience.) Ladies and gentle- 
men, you see it is useless for me to attempt to 
proceed, and I trust you will excuse me from 
performing my part. (^Bows^ and withdj-aws. ) 

S. Yes, I hope you will excuse him, ladies 
and gentlemen. The fact is, he means well 
enough; but, between you and me, he doesn't 
know a wheelwright from a right wheel. I'm 
sorry to say his education has been sadh 
neglected, as you all perceive. He hasn't 
enjoyed the advantages that I have for karning 
good manners. And, then, did you ever hear 
such a ridiculous spouter I ' He might make a,* 
decent town-crier, or auctioneer, or somctliing 
of that sort, — but to think of Tommy Trotter 
pretending to be an orator, and delivering a 
funeral oration over Caesar ! O my ! it's enough 



i 



300 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



What is it? (^To the audience)- — *' feeds hk 
flocks, ' ' —and — and — and — and — There ! I'm 
stuck a' ready ! Just as I expected ; that lubbei 
that came to bury Caesar has buUied all the ideas 
out of my head ! {^Beats an inglorious retreat y 
scratching his head, ) 



to make a cat laugh ! And now, ladies and 
gentlemen, as the interruption has ceased, I will 
proceed with my part : 

**My name is Norval ; on the Grampian Hills 
My father feeds his flocks — ' ' 
And — and — and — {Aside to a boy near him.) 

« 
LITTLE RED RIDINQ=HOOD; 
OR, THE WICKED WOLF AND THE WIRTUOUS WOODCUTTER. 

Jack, the woodcutter, who rescues Red Riding-Hood from the Wolf, quite by axey dent. 

The Wolf, a wicked wretch, who pays his devours to Little Red Riding-Hood, but is defeated 
by his rival. 

Dame Margery, mother of Little Red Riding-Hood, a crusty role, and very ill-bread. 

Little Red Riding-Hood, a fascinating little pet, so lovely that you are not likely to .^ee /wo 
i^ch faces wider a hood. 

The Fairy Felicia, a beneficent genius, versed in spells ^ and quite au fay in magic. 

Granny, an invisibli old girl, by kind permission of the Prompter. 

Note. — Tne dresses are easily enough contrived, with the exception of the Wolf. A rough shawl or a fur jacket will 
answer the purpose, and the head can be made with an animal mask, for sale at costumers' and other places in most citiss 

The Buttarfly in Scene II is affixed to wire held at the wings. The Prompter reads the part of Granny, standing clooe to 
the bed. in order to assist in getting rid of the Dummy when Wolf is supposed to eat it. 

Scene I. — The exterior of Little Red Riding-Hood's Cottage. Enter Red Riding-HooD'S 
. Mother. She i^uns about the stage looking for her child. 




.OTHER. Red Riding-Hpod ! Red 
Riding-Hood, I say ! 
Where can the little monkev hide 
away ? 
Red Riding-Hood ! O dreary, dreary me \ 
Provoking child, where ever can she be ! {^Looks 

off on both sides.) 
She is a shocking disobedient child. 
Enough to drive a loving mother wild ; 
But stay ! where are the butter and the cake 
That to her grandmother she has to take? 

Fetches basket from cottage, and shows cake 
and butter. 

Here is the cake, and here's the butter, see ! 
The nicest cake and butter that could be. 
These in the basket I will neatly lay, 
A present to poor Granny to convey. 
They are not tithes, though given to the wicker ; 

Puts them in basket. 
Bless me, I wish the child were only quicker ! 
^ed Riding-Hood, Red Riding- Hood ! Dear, 
dear f 



Enter Little Red Riding Hood. 

R. R. H. Here I am, ma. 

Mother, You wicked puss, come 

here ! 
Take this to Granny ! Poor old soul, she's ill; 
Give her my love, and these tidbits. 

R. R. H. I will. 

Won't it be nice ? Through wood and field I'll 

walk. 
And have with Jack, perhaps, a little talk. 
De?,r Jack ! At thought of him why quickly 

beat, heart ? 
Dear Jack ! he's no Jack-pudding, but a sweet- 

tart! 
Won't I catch butterflies and gather flowers I 

Mother. Mind you don't dawdle and be 
gone for hours, 
But go straight there, and back again with speed, 
And do not loiter in lane, wood, or mead, 
Or else a great big wolf shall come to eat you ; 
At any rate you** ^o^^ing mother '11 beat you 1 



"" " 


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1 


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CHERRY RIPE, RIPE, RIPE, I CRY, 

FULL AND FAIR ONES— COME AND BUY I 




A STUDY IN ATTITUDES 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



m 



Threatens R. R. H. with stick. Enter Jack, 
at back. 

Jack. Where is Red Riding-Hood, my 
heart's delight? 
La, there's her mother ! What a horrid fright ! 
Mother. What are you doing here, you 
rascal Jack ? 
Be off, or I will hit your head a crack. (^Strikes 
at him, but misses. ). 

Jack. Before your hits^ ma'am, I prefer a 

miss; 
Bows to R. R. H. 
So blow for blow, I mean to blow a kiss. 
(^Kisses hand to R. R. H.) 
Mother. Kisses be bio — 
Jack. Hush ! don't be coarse and low : 

£f you don't like my company, I'll go ; 
Your words are violent, your temper quick. 
So this young woodcutter will cut his stick. 

He and R. R. H. exchange signs, blow kisses, 
etc. Exit Jack. 

Mother, (^to R. R. H.). That spark is not 
your match, and you're to blame. 
To take de-light in such a paltry flame. 
Now go ; and lose no time upon the road. 
But hasten straight to Grandmother's abode. 
R. R. H. I will not loiter, mother, by the 
way, 
No go in search of butterflies astray. 
Instead of picking flowers, my steps I'll pick. 
And take the things to Granny, who is sick 
Good by, dear mother. 

Mother {kisses her). There, my dear, 

good by. 
R. R. H. See how obedient to your word I 

fly! 
Mother. A one-horse fly ! What nonsense 
you do talk ! 
You have no wings, and so of course must walk. 
You go afoot. How now, miss? Wherefore 
smile ? 
R. R. H. Why go afoot? I've got to go a 
mile ; 

That was the reason, mother, why I smiled. 
Mother. That joke's so Tar- fetched, that 
it's very miled. \Exeu7tt. 



Scene II . — A Eorest Glade. Enter Red Rid- 
ing-Hood. 

R. R. H. How nice the wood is, with its 
cool green shade 1 
I must sit down and rest here, I'm afraid ; 
Though mother would declare I'm only lazy, 
I'm very tired and weary. (^Yawns, then stei 
flower and starts. ) Lawk ! a daisy ! 
(^Picks flowers. ) 
It can't be wrong some pretty flowers to pull ; 
With them I'll fill my little apron full, 
And take to please my poor old granny's eye. 

Butterfly flies across the stage. 
O, isn't that a lovely butterfly? (^Runs after it.) 
Stop, little butterfly, a moment, do. 

Tj'ies to catch it, and runs into the arms of 
Jack, who enters. 
I've caught it._^ 

Jack. Beg your pardon, I've caught 

you. {^Kisses her.) 
R. R. H. Don't you be rude, sir ! Fie, why 

treat me thus ! 
Jack. You thought to take a fly, I took a bus. 
I love you, pretty maid ! Suppose we say 
That we'll be married? Just you fix the day. 
{^Embraces her. ) 
R. R. H. You're very pressing, sir ! Well, 
let me see j 
Next Wednesday a we ding's day shall be. 

Jack. An earlier date far better, dear, will do; 
Say, why not Toosday as the day for two ? 
Another kiss ! 

R. R. H. A kiss ! O dear me, no ! 
Farewell. To poor old Granny's I must go, 
For mother has commanded me to take 
The poor old soul some butter and a cake. 
Jack. I'm off to work, then. 
R. R. H. Whither go you, pray? 

Jack. I'm not quite sure, but mean to axe 

my way. \_Exit. 
R. R. H. Now I must hurry off to Granny. 
Fairy appears. 

Law ! 
How lovely ! such a sight I never saw. 

Fairy. I am a fairy, and your friend, my 
dear ; 



302 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAU)C. 



\^oii']l need my aid, for there is danger near. 
Your disobedience to your mother's will 
Has given bad fairies power to work you ill. 

R, R. H. Thanks, beauteous fairy. But no 
harm I meant, 
And of my disobedience much repent. 

Fairy. I know it, ar. , will therefore prove 
your friend ; 
You shall o'ercome your troubles in the end. 
Remember ^\dieu your case my help demands, 
You've naught to do save simply clap your 
hands. [Exit Fairy. 

R. R. H. How very sorry I am now that I 
Was disobedient, let the time slip by : 
Neglected Granny and my mother's words, 
To gather flowers and list to singing birds, 
To hunt the butterflies. 'Twas wrong, I fear — 
But, goodness gracious me, what have we here ? 

Enter Wolf. 

Wolf. O, what a very pretty httle girl ! 
Such rosy cheeks, such hair, so nice in curl ! 
(Aside.) As tender as a chicken, too, I'll la> ; 
One doesn't get such tidbits every day. 
(7J? R. R. H.) What brings you wandering in 

the wood like this. 
And whither are you going, pretty miss? 

'^. R. H. "^'^ bound for Granny's cottage, 
out I fear 
I've strayed from the right path in coming here. 
I'm taking her a currant-cake and butter ; 
So nice, their excellence no tongue can utter. 

Wolf (^aside.) However excellent, I'll bet I 
lick it ; 
As to the cake, I'll gobble pretty quick it. 
(7^ R. R. H.) And where does Granny live ? 

R. R. H. Not far from this ; 

It's near the river. 

Wolf (^pointing off .') Then, my little miss, 
Along that path you have but to repair. 
And very shortly you will find you're there. 

R. R.-H. O, thank you; now I'll go \fExit. 

Wolf. And I'll be bound 

You'll find that same short cut a long way round. 
l"he nearest road to the cottage take, 
And of old Granny I short work will make, 
And then I'll gobble /<?// up, little dear. 



I didn't like to try and eat you here \ 
You might object to it, — some people do, — 
And scream and cry, and make a hubbuboo ; 
And there's a woodcutter 1 know, hard by, 
From whose quick hatchet quick-catch -r 

should I ! 
Here goes to bolt old Granny without flummery 
A spring, — -and then one swallow shall be iiurn- 

mery ! \Exit. 

Scene III. — //z/m^r/?/ Grandmother's cottagv. 

On the right hajid, close to the wing, a bed 
with a dummy in it with a large nightcap. Wolf 
is heard knocking. 

Granny (^spoken from the wing close by the 
bed. ) Who's there ? 

Wolf {imitating R. R. H.). Your littk 
grandchild. Granny dear. 

Granny. That child has got a shocking cold, 
that's clear. 
Some carelessness, — she's got her feet wet 

through 
W^.A running in the rain or heavy dew, 
Perhaps without ner bonnet ; and of course 
The little donkey is a little hoarse. 
Her words she used not croakingly to utter— - 
What do you want ? 

AVoLF. I've brought your cake and 

butter. 
But can't come in, the door my strength defies. 

Granny. Pull at the bobbin, and the latch 
will rise. 

Enter Wolf. 

Granny. How are you, little darling ? 

Wolf. Darling! Pooh! 

You didn't bolt your door, so I'll bolt you ! 

Granny. O mercy ! murder ! what is this I 
see ? 
Some frightful spectre must the monster be ! 

Wolf. Don't make a noise, for you're a 
hopeless hobble in ; 
I'm not a ghost, but soon shall be a gobble-in' 1 

Wolf flings himself on the bed; shrieks and 
gj'owls are heard. The dujnmy is removed with* 
out the audience being able to see it, as Wolf is 
in front of it. 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



803 



*"VOLF {^coming dowf:) Yahen 1 yahen ! 
fahen ! yahen ! yachn ! 

I've finished her ere she could angry be with me, 
I didn't give her time to disagree with me. 
Now for a night-gown {takc^ one) and a night- 
cap {takes one). ' Good ! {J)uts them on.) 
How do I look as Grandm?. Riding-Hood ? 

Gees mto ded, and covers himself up. A 
knock is heard at the door. 
Wolf {imitati7ig Granny's I'oice). Who's 

there ? 
R. R. H. Your little grandchild, Granny 

dear ; 
have a cake and butter for you here. 
Wolf. Pull at the bobbin, and the latch will 

rise. 
Enter R. R. H. 
R. R. H. Good morning, Granny ! here are 

the supplies. 
Sets down basket. 

Wolf. Good morning, dear, come sit beside 
my bed. 
I'm very bad indeed, child, in my head. 
R. R. H. sits on the side of bed. 
R. R. H. Why, Granny, what big ears 

you've got ! 
Wolf. My dear. 

That is that Granny may the better hear. 

R. R. H. And, Granny, what big eyes 

you've got ! 
Wolf. Dear me ! 

That is that Granny may the better see. 
R, R. H. Then, Granny, what big teeth 

you've got? O, la ! 
Wolf. To eat you up with all the better. 
(^Springs out of bed and strikes an attitude. ) Ha ! 
R. R. H. screams y and 7'uns away ; Wolf 
pursues her round the table. 
Enter Jack. 

Jack. As I was passing by, I just dropt in. 
/ To Wolf) Shall I drop into you ? 

Wolf. O, pray begin ! 

Jack. You hideous brute, your wicked game 

I'll stop. 
Hits Wolf with axe. 
How do you like that, monster? 



Wolf. That's first chop ! 

Jack. That isn't all, — another chop to 

follow ! 
Strikes him again. They struggle. Wolf 
falls with a loud cry. 
Don't holloa, sir! 

Wolf. I must, — I'm beaten hollow ; 

You've felled me to the earth. 

Jack. Yes, I'm the feller! 

I'll beat you black and blue. 

Wolf {aside). Then I'll turn yeller! 

Goes into cofivulsions, shrieks, and feig?ts to 
be dead. Jack flings down axe, and embraces 
R. R. H. 

R. R. H» You've saved my Mi^, dear Jack } 
What can I do 
To show my love ard grati*-ude to you? 

Jack. Sweetest Red Riding-Hood, say you'll 
be mine. 
To jine our hands the parson I'll enjine. 

Wolf creeps behind them, aiid secures the axe. 
Wolf {leaping up). That en-gine won't assist 

you, tender pair ; 
Snatches up R. R. H. with one arm, brandish- 
ing axe. 

If that's your line, why I shall raise the fare. 
Jack. He's got the axe — O, here's a nice 

quandary ! 
R. R. H. {claps hands). You'll raise the 

fare ? Then I will raise the fairy ! 
Fairy appears at the back. E7iter R. R. H.'s 
Mother. 

Mother. You wicked child, where have you 

been ? Oho ! 

You're listening to the shoot of that young beau! 

But I'll forbid it, and ]'ll have my way. (Fairy 

co?nes forward. ) 

Fairy. Excuse me, but your orders I gainsay. 

Mother. Who are you, madam, I should 

like to ask ? 
Fairy. I am the Fairy of the Wood, whose 
task 
It is to aid the weak against the strong, 
And set things right when they are going wrong. 
Vou- Master Wolf, \)lease keep that hatche' 
ready; 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



For that sad jest of eating the old lady, 
You shall die, jester, by that very tool ! 
Dame Margery, you have acted like a fool. 

Mother. Good Mistress Fairy, why, what 
have I done ? 

Fairy. Jack is no peasant, but a prince's 
son, 
Stolen from the crib by an old cribbing gypsy. 
When he was little, and his nurse was tipsy. 

Mother. You don't say ! 



I a prince I 
Good gracious, mother f 



Jack. 
R. R. H. 

Is he that 'ere? 
Fairy. He's that heir, and no other. 
Your mother won't reject his house and lands, 
Though she did him ; so here I join your hands, 
With blessings, from the Fairy of the Wood, 
On brave Prince Jack and fair Red Riding- 
Hood. 

Thomas Hood. 



Scene I. 



» FLORAL OFFERINGS. 

FOR ONE LARGE GIRL AND THREE SMALLER ONES. 

Characters: Teacher, Lillie, Anna, Blanche. 

A nicely furnished room. Teacher standing by a small table covered with moss^ 9n 
which she is arranging shells and geological specimens. 



Teacher. 

ERE I stand awaiting them— 

Lonely, sad, and solitary. 
Till the little maidens come 

From the seaside and the prairie. 
From the mountain, steep and high. 

Where their little feet are straying, 
Gathering blossoms they may spy 

Out among the wood-nymphs playing. 
{^Enter Anna with a basket of fiowers^ 

O, my little sca,side girl, 

What is in your garden growing ? 

Anna. 

Wild rockweeds and tangle -grass 

With the slow tide coming, going ; 
Samphire and marsh-rosemary 

All along the wet shore creeping. 
Sandwort, beach-peas, pimpernel 

Out of nooks and corners peeping. 
(^Enter Lillie with basket of flowers. ) 

Teacher. 

O, my little prairie girl, 

What's in bloom among your grasses? 

Lillie. 

Sweet spring-beauties, painted cups 
Flushing when the South wind passes 



Beds of rose-pink centaury 

Compass-flower to northward turning^ 
Larkspur, orange-gold puccoon. 

Leagues of lilies, flame-red burning. 

(^Enter Blanche with basket of flowers,"^ 

Teacher. 
O, my little mountain girl. 
Have you anything to gather? 

Blanche. 

Milk-white everlasting bloom, 

Not afraid of wind or weather, 
Sweet-brier, leaning o'er the crag 

That the lady-fern hides under 
Harebells, violets white and blue, — 

Who has sweeter flowers I wonder ? 



Anna. 



(^Presenting her flowers. ) 



We have gathered them for you. 
On the sea-shore these were growing 



Lillie. 



(^Presenting herfiowei's. ) 
On the prairies mine were found 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



803 



Blanche. 

(^Presenting her flowers. ) 
On the mountain mine were blowing. 

LiLLiE, Blanche and Anna. (/« Concert.^ 
Take them, keep them, pledges fond 
Of our friendship and devotion, — 

Blanche. 

Floral offerings from the mount, 

LiLLIE. 

From the prairies — 



Anna. 



and the ocean. 



Teacher. 

O, my little maidens three, 

I will place your pretty posies. 
Ocean-nourished, cloud-bedewed, 

Prairie grasses, mountain roses. 
On a bed of shells and moss. 

Come and bend your bright heads nearer. 
Though your blossoms are so fair 

You three human flowers are dearer. 



BROUGHT TO TRIAL FOR " BLOWIN\" 

adapted from J. G. Holland's ''arthur bonnicastle. " 

Note. — The boys of Mr. Bird's school were in the habit of judging any one of their number who had been guilty of 
misdemeanor, Arthur, a small boy, was ia the habit of telling strange and fabulous stories. 

Scene. — A large number of boys are seated demurely around a room. At one end, a boy sits in a 
high chair as Judge. Arthur is walking along at another part of building. Two boySy with 
staffs in their hands taller than themselves, ineet him. 



TjTIRST BOY {^solemnly). Halt! Arthur 
1^ Bonnicastle, you are arrested in the name 
\ of the High Society of Inquiry, and 
ordered to appear before that august tribunal to 
answer for your sins and misdemeanors. Right 
about face ! 

[He marches witfe the two boys, into the room 
in front of Judge's chair.] 

Second Boy. We have secured the offender, 
your honor, and now have the satisfaction of 
presenting him before this honorable Society. 

Judge. The prisoner will stand in the middle 
of the room and look at me. 

[The boys march with him to the middle of 
the room before the Judge.] 

Judge {in a sloWy solemn tone^ . Arthur Bon- 
nicastle, you are brought before The High 
Society of Inquiry on a charge of telling so many 
lies, that no dependence whatever can be placed 
upon your words. What have you to reply to 
this charge ? Are you guilty, or not guilty ? 

Arthur {indignantly). I am not guilty. 
VVlio says I am ? 
20 



Judge. Henry Hulm, you will advance ! 

[Henry takes position by the Judge.] 

Judge. Henry Hulm, you will look upon the 
prisoner, and tell the Society whether you know 
him. 

Henry. I know him well. He is my chum. 

Judge. What is his general character ? 

Henry. He is bright and very amiable. 

Judge. Do you consider him a boy of truth 
and veracity ? 

Henry. I do not. 

Judge. Has he deceived you ? If he has, 
please state the occasion and circumstances. 

Henry. No, your honor, he has never 
deceived me. I always know when he speaks 
the truth. 

Judge. Have you ever told him of his 
crimes, and warned him to desist from them? 

Henry. I have, many times. 

Judge. Has he shown any disposition to 
amend ? 

Henry. None at all, your honor. 

Judge. What is the character of his false- 
hood? 



k 



306 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



Hekry. He tells stunning stories about him- 
self. Great things are always happening to him, 
aiid he is always performing the most wonderful 
deeds. 

[Arthur drops his head.] 

Judge, Will you give us some specimens of 
his stories ? 

Henry. I will, but I can do it. best by ask- 
ing him questions. 

Judge {bowing pleasantly to Henry'). Very 
well. Pursue the course you think best. 

Henry. Arthur, did you ever tell me that, 
when you and your father were on the way to 
this school, your horse went so fast that he ran 
down a black fox in the middle of the road and 
cut off his tail with the wheel of your chaise, and 
that you sent that tail home to one of your sisters 
to wear in her winter hat ? 

Arthur. Yes, I did. 

Judge {in a low, grim voice). And did your 
said horse really run down said fox in the middle 
of said road, and cut off said tail ; and did you 
send home said tail to said sister, to be worn in 
said hat ? The prisoner will answer so that all 
can hear. 

Arthur {slowly). No, but — I — did see a 
black fox, a real blacl: fox, as plain as day. 

All the Boys {speaking together ift a tatmting 
tone y looking froT?t one. to the other). Oh, oh, 
oh ! He did see a black fox, a real black fox as 
plain as day ! 

Judge. The witness will pursue his inquiries. 

Henry. Arthur, did you or did you not, tell 
me that when on the way to this school you 
overtook Mr. and Mrs. Bird in their wagon, that 
you were invited into the wagon by Mrs. Bird, 
and that one of Mr. Bird's horses chased a calf 
on the road, caught it by the ear and tossed it 
over the fence and broke its leg ? 
' Arthur {desperately). I s'pose I did. 

Judge. And did said horse really chase said 
calf, and catch him by said ear, and toss him 
over said fence, and break said leg ? 

Arthur. He didn't catch him by the ear, 
but he really did chase a calf ! 



All the Boys {together). Oh, oh, oh ! He 
didn't catch him by the ear, but he really did 
chase a calf ! 

Judge. Witness, you will pursue your in- 
quiries. 

Henry. Arthur, did you or did you not, tell 
me that you have an old friend who is soon to 
go to sea, and that he has promised to bring you 
a male and female monkey, a male and a female 
bird of paradise, a barrel of pineapples, and a 
Shetland pony? 

Arthur. It doesn't seem as if I told you 
exactly that. 

Judge {severely). Did you or did you not 
tell him so ? 

Arthur. Perhaps I did. 

Judge. And did said friend, who is soon to 
go to said sea, really promise to bring you said 
monkeys, said bird of paradise, said pineapples 
and said pony ? 

Arthur. No, but I really have an old friend 
who is going to sea, and he'll bring me anything 
I ask him to. 

All the Boys {together). Oh, oh, oh ! He 
really has an old friend who is going to sea, and 
he'll bring him anything he asks him to ! 

[The teacher, Mr. Bird, enters. The boys 
all jump from their seats and hastily disperse. 
The Judge in his haste tips over his high chair, 
and prepares to leave with the rest. - Mr. Bird 
beckons him to remain.] 

Mr. Bird. What does this mean ? 

Judge {without his solejmi tone). We iiave 
been trying, sir, to break Arthur Bonnicastle of 
lying, and we were about to order him to 
report to you, for confession and correction. 

[Arthur hastens to Mr. Bird, takes his hand 
and hides his face on his sleeve.] 

Mr. Bird {looking down on hijn kijidly and 
leading him away). Come, Arthur, we will go 
to my study, and you can tell me all about it. 

\Curtain falls.'] 

Hattie Herbert 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX, 



t*'""? 



COURTSHIP UNDER DIFFICULTIBS. 



FOR TWO I\L\LES AND ONE FEMALE. 
[This may be taade almost equally successful as a reading.] 



Enter Snobbleton. 

NOBBLETON. {Looking in the direction 
wheiice he has just come^ . Yes, there is 
that fellow Jones, again. I declare, the 
man is ubiquitous. A\Tierever I go with ray 
cousin Prudence we stumble across him, or he 
follows her like her shadow. Do we take a boat- 
ing? So does Jones. Do we wander on the 
beach ? So does Jones. Go where we will, 
that fellow follows or moves before. Now, that 
was a cruel practical joke which Jones once 
played upon me at college. I have never for- 
given him. But I would gladly make a pre- 
tense of doing so, if I could have my revenge. 
Let me see. Can't I manage it? He is head 
over ears in love with Prudence, but too bashful 
to speak. I half believe she is not indifferent to 
him, though altogether unacquainted. It may 
prove a match, if I can not spoil it. Let me 
think. Ha ! I have it ! A brilliant idea ! 
Jones, beware ! But here he comes. 

Enter Jones. 

Jones (^Not seeing Snobbleton, and delight- 
edly co7itemplating a flower , which he holds in his 
hand') . Oh, rapture ! what a prize ! It was in 
her hair — I saw it fall from her queenly head. 
(Kisses it every now and then.) How wann 
are its tender leaves from having touched her 
neck ! How doubly sweet is its perfume — fresh 
from the fragrance of her glorious locks ! How 
beautiful ! how — Bless me ! here is Snobbleton. 
We are enemies ! 

Snobbleton (Advancing with an air of 
frankness). Good-morning, Jones — that is, if 
you will shake hands. 

Jones. What ! — you forgive ! You really — 

Snobbleton. Yes, yes, old fellow ! All is 
forgotten. You played me a rough trick ; but 
-let bygones be bygones. Will you not bury the 
batchet ? 



Jones. With all my heart, my dear fellow I 
( They shake hands. ) 

Snobbleton. What is the matter with you, 
Jones? You look quite grumpy—not by any 
means the same cheerful, dashing, rollicking 
fellow you were. 

Jones. Grumpy — what is that ? How do I 
look, Snobbleton? 

Snobbleton. Oh, not much out of the way. 
Only a little shaky in ine shanks, blue lips, red 
nose, cadaverous jaws, bloodshot eyes, yellow — - 

Jones (Aghast). Bless me, you don't say 
so ! (Aside. ) Confound the man ! Here have 
I been endeavoring to appear romantic for the 
last month — and now to be called shaky- 
shanked, cadaverous — it is unbearable ! 

Snobbleton. But never mind. Cheer up, 
old fellow ! I see it all. Egad ! I know what 
it is to be in — 

Jones. Ah ! You can then sympathize with 
me ! You know what it is to be in — 

Snobbleton. Of course I do ! Heaven 
preserve me from the toils ! ^^^lat days of bit- 
terness ! 

Jones. What nights of bliss ! 

Snobbleton (Shuddering). And then the 
letters — the interminable letters ! 

Jones (with rapture) . Oh, yes, the letters! 
The billet doux ! 

Snobbleton. And the bills — the endless 
bills ! 

Jones (in surprise). The bills ! 

Snobbleton. Yes ; and the bailiffs, the law 
yers, the judge, and the jury. 

Jones. Why, man, what are you taking 
about ? I thought you said you knew what it 
was to be in — 

bjNutscLETON. In debt. To be sure I did. 

Jones. Bless me ! I'm not in debt — nevei 
borrowed a dollar in my life. Ah, rae ! (sighs^ 
it'.« worse ^han that. 



308 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



Snobbleton. Worse than that ! Come, 
now, Jones, there is only one thing worse. 
You're surely not in love? 

Jones Yes, I am. ( With sudden feeling. ) 
Oh, Snobby, help me, help me ! Let me confide 
in you. 

Snobbleton (^With mock emotion). Confide 
in me ! Certainly, my dear fellow ! See ! I do 
not shrink — I stand firm. (^Folds his anns in a 
determined posture. ) Blaze away ! 

Jones. Snobby, I — I love her. 

Snobbleton. Whom ? 

Jones. Your cousin, Prudence. 

Snobbleton. Ha ! Prudence Angelina Win- 
terbottom ? 

Jones. Now, don't be angry. Snobby ! I 
don't mean any harm, you know. I — I — you 
know how it is. 

Snobbleton. Harm ! my dear fellow. Not 
a bit of it. Angry ! Not at all. You have my 
consent, old fellow. Take her She is yours. 
Heaven bless you both. 

Jones. You are very kirn", Snobby, but I 
haven't got her consent yet. 

Snobbleton. Well, that is something, to be 
sure. But, leave it all to me. She may be a 
little coy, you know ; but, considering your 
generous overlooking of her unfortunate defect — 

Jones. Defect ! You surprise me. 

Snobbleton. What ! and you did net know 
of it ? 

Jones. Not at all. I am astonished ! Noth- 
ing serious, I hope. 

Snobbleton. Oh, no, only a little. (^He 
taps his ear with his finger ^ knowingly. ) I see 
you understand it. 

Jones. Merciful heaven ! can it be ? But, 
really is it serious ? 

Snobbleton. I should think it was. 

Jones. What ! But is she ever dangerous ? 

Snobbleton. Dangerous! Why should she 
be? 

Jones (^Conside^-ahly relieved'). Oh, I per- 
ceive ! A mere airiness of brain — a gentle 
aberration — scorning the dull world — a mild — 

Snobbleton. Zounds, man, she's not crazy I 



Jones. My dear Snobby, you relieve me. 

Snobbleton. Slightly deaf. That's alL 

Jones. Deaf ! 

Snobbleton. As a lamp-post. 1 hat is, you 
must elevate your voice to a considerable pitch 
in speaking to her. 

Jones. Is it possible ! However, I think I 
can manage. As, for instance, if it was my 
intention to make her a floral offering, and I 
should say (^elevating his voice considerably) ^ 
**Mlss, will you make me happy by accepting 
these flowers ? " I suppose she could hear me, 
eh ? How would that do ? 

Snobbleton. Pshaw ! Do you call that 
elevated ? 

Jones. Well, how would this do? {Speak 
very loudly.) '< Miss, will you make me 
happy — ' ' 

Snobbleton. Louder, shriller, man ! 

Jones. '*Miss, will you — " 

Snobbleton. Louder, louder, or she will only 
see your lips move. 

Jones. {Almost screaming). *' Miss, will you 
oblige me by accepting these flowers ? ' ' 

Snobbleton. There, that may do. Still you 
want practice. I perceive the lady herself is 
approaching. Suppose you retire for a short 
time, and I will prepare her for the introduction. 

Jones. Very good. Meantime, I will go 
down to the beach and endeavor to acquire the 
proper pitch. Let me see: '*Miss, will you 
oblige me — " 

[Exit Jones, still speaking.'] t 

Enter Prudence, from other side. » 

Prudence. Good morning, cousin. Wh«?. 
was that, speaking so loudly ! 

Snobbleton. Only Jones. Poor fellow, he is 
so deaf that I suppose he fancies his own voice 
to be a mere whisper. 

Prudence. Why, I was no aware of this. Is 
he very deaf! 

Snobbleton. Deaf as a stone fence. To be 
sure he does not use an ear-trumpet any more, 
but, one must speak excessively high. Unfortu- 
nate, too, for I believe he is in love. 




SHF HAD SO MANY CHILDREN SHE DIDNT KNOW 
WHAT TO DO 




THEY TELL ME I MUST DO IT JUST SO, 

I WONDER IF THEY THINK THAT I DON'T KNOW. 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



309 



Can't you guess? 
Oh, no : I haven't the slightest 



Prudence (^Witk one emotion'). In love! 
with whom ? 

Snobbleton. 

Prudence. 
idea. 

Snobbleton. With yourself ! He has been 
begging me to obtain him an introduction. 

Prudence. Well, I have always thought him 
a nice-looking young man. I suppose he would 
hear me if I should say {speaks loudly) j^* Good- 
morning, Mr. Jones ? " 

Snobbleton {Compassionately). Do you 
think he would hear that? 

Prudence. Well, then, how would {speaks 
'ery loudly) *' Good-morning, Mr. Jones!'* 

;ow would that do ? 

Snobbleton. Tush ! he would think you 
[were speaking under your breath. 

Prudence {Almost sereaming). ^*Good- 
lorning 1 " 

Snobbleton. A mere whisper, my dear cousin. 
But here he comes. Now, do try and make 
'ourself audible. 

Enter Jones. 

Snobbleton {Speaking in a high voice), Mr. 
Jones, cousin. Miss Winterbottom, Jones. 
You will please excuse me for a short time. 
{He retires ^^but remains in view. ) 

Jones {Speaking shrill and loud, and offering 
some floivers). Miss, will you accept these 
flowers ? I plucked them from their slumber on 
the hill. 

Prudence {In an equally high voice) . Really, 
sir, I — I — 

Jones {Aside). She hesitates. It must be 
that she does not hear me. {Increasing his 
tone.) Miss, will you accept these flowers — 
flowers ? I plucked them sleeping on the hill 

•HILL. 

Prudence {Also increasing her tone). Cer- 
■tainly, Mr. Jones. They are beautiful — beau-u- 

IFUL. 

Jones {Aside). How she screams in my ear. 
{Aloud.) Yes, I plucked them from their 
«lumber — slumber, on the hill — hill. 

Prudence {Aside), Poor man, what an effort 



it seems to him to speak. {Aloud. ) I perceive 
you are poetical. Are you fond of poetry? 
{Aside). He hesitates. I must speak louder. 
{In a scream. ) Poetry — poetry — poetry ! 

Jones {Aside). Bless me, the woman would 
wake the dead! {Aloud), Yes, Miss, I 
ad-o-r-e it. 

Snobbleton {Solus from behind ^ rubbing his 
hands) . Glorious ! glorious I I wonder how 
loud they can scream. Oh, vengeance, thou art 
sweet ! 

Prudence. Can you repeat some poetry — 

POETRY. 

Jones. I only know one poem. It is this : 

You'd scarce expect one of my age — AGE, 
To speak in public on the stage— Stage. 

Prudence {Putting her lips to his ear and 
shouting) . Bravo — bravo ! 

Jones {In the same way). Thank you ! 
Thank — 

Prudence {Putting her hands over her ears). 
Mercy on us ! Do you think I'm deaf, sir ? 

Jones {Also stopping his ears). And do you 
fancy ine deaf. Miss ? 

\They now speak in their natural tones. '\ 

Prudence. Are you not, sir ? You surprise 
me I 

Jones. No, Miss. I was led to believe that 
you were deaf. Snobbleton told me so. 

Prudence. Snobbleton ! Why he told me 
tha.t you were deaf. 

Jones. Confound the fellow ! he has been 
making game of us. Here he is. {Perceiving 
Snobbleton.) You shall answer for this, sir. 

Prudence. Yes, sir, you shall answer for 
this, sir. 

Snobbleton {Advanci?tg) . Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
And to whom must I answer ? 

Jones ( They turn to the audience) . To these, 
our friends, whose ears are split. 

Snobbleton. Well then, the answer must be 
brief. 

Prudence ( To Jones) . But they, our friends, 
are making it. 

Jones. I hear th 3m, Miss. I am not deaf. 
^Curtain Falls. '^ 



310 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



HOW SHE CURED HIM. 



FOR A GENTLEMAN AND TWO LADIES. 



Characters: Uncle Joseph, Theodora, Mrs. Perkins, An Invalid, His Niece, The Housekeeper, 
Scene I. — To represent a kitchen. Mrs. Perkins is washing dishes — Theodora /dir/V?^ apples. 




|RS. PERKINS. It's a burning shame 
—so it is — the cross old curmudgeon ! 
Nothing ails him but the hypo. He's 
jest as well as any body if he only thought so. 
He keeps the house stirred up all the time ; — 
and you. Miss Dora, are just killing yourself 
waiting on him. 

Dora. Uncle is getting very nervous, it is 
true, but perhaps he is sicker than we think, 
Mrs. Perkins. 

Mrs. p. Land sakes ! who wouldn't be ner- 
vous shet up in the house all the time ? The 
old tyrant managers to keep us hopping and 
bounding. If he only took half as much exer- 
cise as he gives us, he would be well enough, 
I'll warrant ! There it goes again — that old 
cane thumping on the floor ! What now, I 
wonder ? 

Dora. Yes, that's uncle calling--! must run 
up stairs and see what he wants. 

Mrs. p. ( To herself, ) That girl makes a per- 
fect little ninny of herself, humoring all his 
whims. I'd like to see myself doing it for any- 
body. 

Scene II. The sick room. Uncle Joseph in an 
easy chair with his feet on a footrest. Enter 
Dora. 

Uncle Joseph. Well, you have come at last, 
have you ? I've been rapping on the floor till 
my arms are ready to fall out of their sockets. 
Are you all deaf down stairs, or has old Perkins 
forgotten that there is anybody here but herself 
and her snufl" box ? 

Dora. I'm very sorry, uncle. 

Uncle J. Actions speak louder than words. 

Dora. How do you feeJ *^ow, uncle Joseph? 

Uncle J. I'm worse. 

Dora. Arc you ? 

Uncle J. Flesh hot, pulse high, skin flushed 



• — of course I'm worse, This confounded hot 
room is enough to throw anyone into a fever. 
Open all the doors and windows — quick ! (^She 
obeys and then returns to receive his next orders. ) 
Uh ! do you want to freeze me to death — to 
blow me away ? 

Dora. You told me to air the room, uncle. 

Uncle J. Shut the doors — put down the 
windows — draw the curtains, the sun hurts m^ 
eyes. 

Dora. Yes, uncle. ( Goes out and returns. ) 

Uncle J. (^Hears a knocking.^ Who's that 
battering down that door ? 

Dora. It's only a gentle knocking, uncle. 

Uncle J. Then I'm nervous. Go and see 
who's there. 

Dora. (^Returns.') It is Major Crowfoot, 
uncle, he sends his compliments and wants to 
know how you are. 

Uncle J. Tell him to go to the deuce. 

Dora. Yes, uncle o ( Goes out aud returns^ 
soon. ) 

Uncle J. Well, what did he say ? 

Dora. He seemed very much offended, 
uncle. 

Uncle J. Oflended ? At what, pray .' 

Dora. At being told to go to the" deuce, I 
suppose. 

Uncle J. Girl, you didn't tell him that? 

Dora. Yes I did. You s:iid yourself, **tell 
him to go to the deuce ! " 

Uncle J. Dora, you're a fool. 

Dora. I'm very sorry, uncle. 

Uncle J. Get me some water gruel, and be 
quick about it, too. A man must eat even if he 
is at death's door. Oh dear ! Oh dear ! wh» 
a senseless pack I've got around me! (^Dor» 
leaves. ) I wonder if that girl is getting crazy* 
Told Major Crowfoot that stuff". I'll bet he's 
hopping mad—don't blame him. Dora must 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



311 



be either a fool or a lunatic. Well, I can't help 
' it now. Here I've got to lie day after day — 
never' 11 be any better as long as I must be 
agitated all the time by such pig-headed people 
as live under this roof. 

Dora. (^Returns with the gruel.) Here's 
your gruel, uncle. 

Unclc J. ( Tastes and throws down the spoon. ) 
Trash ! trash ! insipid as dishwater ! Throw it 
to the pigs. 

Dora. Yes, uncle. (^Starts off with the 
gruel. ) 

Uncle J. Where are you going, Theodora ? 
^ Dora. To the pig pen, uncle. 
B_ Uncle J. Girl, are you an idiot ! The gruel 
Hk well enough, only Mrs. Perkins forgot the nut- 

^Beg. 

^■DoRA. (^Tasting.) But, uncle, it is as 

^^Bsipid as dishwater. 

^^f Uncle J. Will you allow me to have an 
opinion of my own ? It will be all right if that 
old crone, down stairs, will only add the nut- 
meg and give it another boil. 



Scene IIi 



P. 



Dora enters the kitchen with the 

gruel. 
Well, what's wanted now. Miss 



Mrs. 
Dont? 

Dora. Uncle wishes you to boil the gruel a 
little more and add some nutmeg. His appetite 
is very poor, you know. He thinks he feels 
worse to-day. 

Mrs. p. He does, hey? Wal, hand it here, 
I'll see if I can fix it to his liking. The fussy 
old thing ; nobody can please him. (^Stirs the 
gruel over the fire^ then hands it to Dora. ) I 
wonder if it will do now? 

Dora. I hope so. Oh dear ! (^Leaves the 
^oom.) 

Mrs. p. {To herself.) I should think it 
was ''Oh, dear ! '' I'd like to know how many 
times she's run up and down stairs to-day ! She 
will wait on him herself because she thinks, I 
•^'pose, nobody else could stand it with him. 
VVal, I'm glad of it. I couldn't have the 
patience that dear child has, I'm sure. 



Scene IV. Dora enters, 

Dora. Here's your gruel, uncle. 

Uncle J. Why didn't you stay all day? I 
never saw such a snail in all my life ! 

Dora. Indeed, uncle, I hurried just as fast 
as I could. 

Uncle J. It's too late now. I've lost all 
my appetite. 

Dora. Won't you have the gruel, uncle? 

Uncle J. No, I won't. I can't eat any- 
thing now. 

[Dora fakes the dish from the room and returns 
without it. '\ 

Uncle J. Theodora ! 

Dora. Sir. 

Uncle J. I'll try just a spoonful of that gruel 
before it gets cold. 

Dora. Why, uncle, I threw it away. 

Uncle J, Threw my gruel away ? 

Dora. Yes, uncle, you told me you didn't 
want it. 

Uncle J. I told you so ? Furies and fiddle 
strings ! You might know by this time that I 
didn't mean half I say. Get me some more. 
If I hadn't been bed-ridden for more than a year 
I could go faster than you do. Oh dear ! to 
think I shall never walk again ! 

Dora. Uncle Joseph, the doctor said yester- 
day that he really thought that if you were to try 
you could walk as well as anybody. 

Uncle J. The doctor's a fool and you may 
tell him so with my compliments. 

Dora. I will, uncle, next time he comes. 

Uncle J. Theodora, if you do I'll disinherit 
you. 

Dora. Very well, uncle. (^Leaves the 
room. ) 

Uncle J. (71? himself). What can ail 
Dora? I never saw her half as stupid. She'd 
tell the doctor that. Any half-witted simpleton 
might know better. 

[Dora returns with the gruel. "] 

Dora. There's your gruel, uncle, all smok- 
ing hot. 



S12 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



Uncle J. Theodora, you'll have to feed me. 
This annoyance has weakened me dreadfully. 

Dora. Yes, uncle. (^Commences to feed him.) 

Uncle J. Stop ! stop ! it's hot ! You're 
choking me ! Stop, I stay ! Didn't I tell you to 
stop ? Do you want to burn me to death ? I 
don't believe there's an inch of skin left in my 
throat. 

Dora. You told me yourself, uncle, that you 
don' t mean half you say. How did I know that 
the gruel was really burning you ? 

Uncle J. What's that smoke? 

Dora. I think it is Mrs. Perkins putting 
some more wood on the kitchen fire. 

Uncle J. No it isn't. The house is on fire. 

Dora. {^Rushes from the room screaming?) 
Fire ! fire ! fire ! fire ! help ! murder ! thieves ! 
help ! help ! 

Uncle J. Oh ! oh ! fire ! fire ! oh, dear ! 
oh, dear ! oh ! help ! help ! Will nobody come 
to help me out of the burning house ? Oh, 
dear, do help, quick ! quick ! {raps with his 
cane). Come, come, come, now. Do come. 
i^ Jumps up — curtain falls.') 

Scene V. 
[Uncle Joseph runs into the kitchen.'] 
Mrs. p. Goodness ! if here isn't master 
a' most scart to death? 



% 



Uncle J. Where's the fire? Where's the 
fire? 

Mrs. p. There isn't any fire that I know of 
only in the stove here. It always smokes jest so 
when it is first kindled. 

Uncle J. Where did you see the fire, Dora ? 

Dora. I didn't see any fire, but you said the 
house was on fire and I supposed it must be so. 
Do go back to bed, uncle ] it was only a false 
alarm, you see. 

Uncle J. I won't go back. Theodora, I 
won't go back to that bed to-day. 

Dora. But you are very sick, uncle, and this 
excitement will surely kill you. Do go back. 

Uncle J. No, I'm not so very sick, child. 

Dora. Do you really mean it Uncle Joseph? 
Can you walk as well as ever ? 

Uncle J. Yes, I can, Dode, I guess the 
scare Hmbered up my old stiffened limbs a little. 

Dora. Well, then, uncle, let's ^o into the 
sitting-room. You need rest, come. (^They 
leave the stage. ) 

Mrs. p. {Alone). Didn't I tell her it was 
only the hypo ? It is a good thing something 
started him. The old man finds he can walk, 
after all. I b'leve Dora did it a purpose, — the 
little trollop — I seen her a laughin' to herself. 
And this is how she c ''^ed him. Wal, wa,l, she's 
cute, no mistake. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

A PANTOMIME. 

Characters and Costumes.— Santa Claus, a large boy, with long-, white hair and beard, round fur or paper otp, aft' 
enormous pack strapped upon his shoulders, from which protrude various toys. A light carriage-cloth may be wrapped about 
him. George and Fred— Two little boys, one quite small, dressed in short Mouse and pantaloons in Scene I. In Scenes II, III 
and IV in long, colored dressing-gowns. Nellie— Small girl with short dress and apron in Scene I. In Scenes II, III and IV in 
lon^ white night-robe. Father and Mother— Large boy and girl in ordinary house dress, except the father, as Santa Claus in 
Scene III. 



^HE children come bounding in, they bow 
'^J to the audience, glanse at the clock, go 
to a small bureau, and opening a drawer, 
extract three pairs of colored hose. They pin 
the tops together, and mounting chairs proceed 
to hang them carefully upon hooks prepared to 
ifcceive them. Georgie points to the clock, 



Scene I. 

expressing that is nearly bed- time. Nellie claps 
her hands, and Fred jumps about and smiles his 
joy. Taking hold of hands they bow and g| 
out. 

Scene II. 

The mother enters with the children, who ar? 
robed for sleep. She leads the two youngesf 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



31S 



one by each hand. They pause, pointing to the 
stockings. The mother smiles, and toys with 
Fred's curls. She leads them to the couch, over 
which blankets are spread, and kneels in front of 
couch, the children follow her example, with 
clasped hands and bowed heads. They remain 
in this attitude a short time, then rising, the 
mother proceeds to assist the two boys into bed, 
kisses them good-night, looks out of the window, 
then tucks the covering closer about them. 
She then leads Nellie to the crib, lifts her in, 
kisses her, arranges the chairs, closes the drawer 
that the children left open, takes one more look 
nt the boys and goes out. 

Scene III. 
Santa Claus comes creeping cautiously in, 
makes a profound bow to the audience, then 
peering at the occupants of couch and crib to be 
sure they are locked in the arms of Morpheus, 
he proceeds to fill the stockings. While he is 
thus engaged, the youngest boy (^w/k? should have 
piercing eyes) slowly raises his curly head from 
the pillow, and recognizing his father in the 
person of Santa Claus, places a finger signifi- 



cantly upon his nose, as much as to say, *^You 
can't fool me ! " Of course, his movements are 
unnoticed by Santa Claus, who fills the stockings 
to repletion, places sundry other large toys, such 
as a sled, wax doll, hobby, etc., under each 
respective stocking, and laying a finger upon 
his lips, bows and goes out. 

Scene IV. 

The father and mother enter, and going up to 
the children, pantomime that they are asleep, 
and must not be disturbed. They sit. Chil- 
dren begin to show sign: of waking. Fred leaps 
to the floor with a bound, rubbing his eyes, the 
others follow in rapid succession, and mounting 
chairs, wrench the stockings from the hooks, 
and scatter their contents over the floor.— ( They 
should contain nothing that would injure by 
falling.') — Fred shakes his finger mischievously 
at his father, then rushes up and kisses him 
heartily. The children gather up the toys, 
which they drop again, and finally, with arms 
full, they al] face th^ audience, bow and go out. 

Jennie Joy. 



A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING. 



FOR A GENTLEMAN AND LADY. 



f^\ LOUD knocking is heard at the door. 
i— J Deaf old lady, with her knitting, glances 
• ' at the clock. 

Old Lady. Peers to me that clock ticks 
louder' n common to-night. (^A Tramp opens 
the door andjwalks in. ) 

Tramp Good evening, kind lady. 

Old Lady. How-de-du? What's wantin'? 

Tramp. Please ma'am can you give me some 
bread ? 

Old Lady. Dead? Who's dead. 

Tramp. ( To himself. ) A little hard of hear- 
ing I reckon ! (^Aloud. ) Can you give me a 
piece of bread, please? 

Old Lady. Leteesa Pease? Tom Peases 
oldest darter ! That's sorrowful news, to be 
ture, and they took pains to send word tu me 



though I wan't much acquainted with 'em \ 
When did she die? What was the matter on her? 

Tramp. {To himself ) I've put my foot in 
it now ! I'll bet she's as deaf as an adder. 
{Speaks up louder. ) I asked for something to 
eat. 

Old Lady. Her feet? Earsiplus? That's 
tu bad ! Didn't take it in time, I s'pose. 
Wonder if they tried cramberries? — they're 
powerful good for infermation ! 

Tramp. You don't understand. 

Old L. Oh dear ! her hands tu ! Poor 
creature ! It made an entire cripple on her — ■ 
don't 'spose she could help herself one atom. 
Must a ben a great care tu her folks. 

Tramp. I might as well talk to a grindstone^ 
I suppose- 



314 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



Old L. Her nose? Cancer? Oh! that's 
awful ! They say misfortens never come single. 
Earsiplus and cancer, tu, was enough to break 
anybody's constitution. Must a suffered every- 
thing ! Her folks can't wish her back, but it 
must be a terrible blow to 'em ( Wipes her eyes.) 
Excuse me sir, I alius was so sympathetic ! 

Tramp. Have you got any cake ? 

Old L. She'd shake! Reg' lar ager chills ! 
I guess anybody' d shake ef they had tu bear 
the pain she did. Quinine is good for chills ; 
but I don't 'spose there was no help for the poor 
child ! 

Tramp. ( Yelling. ) Old Flint Ears, I would 
like some//^ — a piece of- — pie. 

Old L. Yis that's true, we've all got tu die, 
but don't get so narvus and go into spasums 
about it, 'twon't du no good. We mought as 
well be resignated. 

Tramp. Can't you give me some money? 
money ? money ? 

Old L. Honey? No, we don't keep no 
bees. I don't keer for honey; besides, bee 
stings is awful pizen tu me. I had one sting me 
on the nose onse and it made a lump as big as a 
butnut and shet both eyes. 

Tramp. And ears, too, I reckon ! I'll try 
something else. {Takes a paper from his pocket 
and hands it to herS) 



Old L. (^In disgust.) I don't want any o.^ 
your old, greasy papers. I know what you be 
now. You're one of these ere tramps, 'round 
beggin' your Hvin' out' en honest folks — ben 
burnt out, shipwrecked, and blowed to pieces in 
a powder mill, hain't ye ? Mebbe you're hungry 
— I alius make it a pint to give stragglers suthin 
't'eat, 'cause I never could stand by and see a 
feller critter a starvin' tu deth afore my face and 
eyes and not give them nothin' tu squench their 
hunger. ( Gives him slice of dread. ) There, I 
guess that'll du without any honey. And now 
I'd like to give you a leetle piece of advice. I 
think you'd better go tu work and arn an honest 
livin' instid of walkin' intu folkses houses, tellin' 
yarns; and mebbe there ain't a word of truth in 
anything you've said. , 

Tramp. I'd like to g\YQ you a little advice, 
I think you'd better put a pistol to your ears 
and blow a hole through your head so you can 
hear something, and I'd like to furnish one 
to do it. 

Old L. You needn't mutter to yourself. 
Clear out or I'll set the dog on ye. Here, Tige 
here Tige ! (^Exit tramp.) I guess I'll fasten 
the back door afore anybody else cums in with- 
out even duin' as much as tu knock. {Exit Old 
Lady.) 

Mrs. G. S. Hall. 



FOUR CELEBRATED CHARACTERS. 

a simple one act drama for four little girls. 
Characters: Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Gold Spinner. 

lyiTTLE Red Riding-Hood. — The child who personates this part should be smaller than the others. 

COSTUMES. 

Cinderella. — A ragged calico dress, feet bare, hair flowing, but smooth and tidy. 

Red Riding-Hood. — Long scarlet cloak, with hood. 

Sleeping Beauty. — A handsome costume of white, made with train ; hair flowing ; a garden hat on her heai 

Gold Spinner.— White dress, with train ; hair done high on the head, in womanish style ; wears a hat. 



{Enter 'R.^jy Riding-Hood (i?.), Cinderella (Z.), meet in centre."] 

were to die? Who else could amuse them so 
well us little Red Riding- Hood ? 

Cinderella. They might take up Avith me, I 
suppose. But, indeed, I cannot understand how 
you can be alive. lam sure the old wolf ate you up. 



©INDERELLA. Why, Red Riding-Hood, 
is that really you? I thought you were 
dead long ago. 
Red Riding-Hood. Dead ? No, indeed. 
What would become of all the children if I 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



S16 



Red Riding-Hood. Yes, but you forget the 
lest of the story, — how the hunter chanced to 
come along and cut the wolf open, so that both 
my grandmother and I were set free. But 
where are you going ? 

Cinderella. They have sent for me to come 
'ij) to the palace and try on a glass slipper. 

Red Riding-Hood. A glass slipper ? 

Cinderella. Yes, and I don't mind telling 
you a secret — because you look as if you could 
keep one. I know the slipper will fit me, because 
it is mine, and I have the mate to it in my pocket. 

Red Riding- Hood. But aren't you afraid 
some one will get there before you do, and put 
on the sUpper, and so claim it ? 

Cinderella. No, indeed. Do you suppose 
there is another foot like that in all the kingdom ? 

[Holding out her foot. '\ 

Red Riding-Hood. It certainly is a pretty 
foot, but are you going to the palace in that 
ragged dress, and barefoot, too? 

Cinderella. Of course. Have yo-a never 
heard my story ? I am Cinderella. 

Red Riding-Hood {reflecting.) It seems as 
if I have, yet I do not remember any of it now. 
You know I don't hear much of what is going 
on in the world. I just go back and forth to 
my grandmother's every day. 

Cinderella. Well, my bad stepmother will 
not give me any decent clothes to wear. So 
when I wanted to go to the ball at the palace, 
my god-mother dressed me up very fine indeed ; 
but, as I cannot wear those clothes except at 
night, in the daytime I go as you now see me. 
[Enter Sleeping Beauty, (i?.)] . 

Cinderella. Why, that is the Sleeping 
Beauty. 

Sleeping Beauty. Good morning. I am 
so glad to meet some one. I have come a long 
way alone. 

Cinderella. But when did you awake ? 

Sleeping Beauty. Only yesterday. 

Cinderella. But since you are awake, there 
& must be a Prince. Where is he ? 
BL Sleeping Beauty. Oh, he has gone hunting, 






and I was tired of staying in the palace alone, 
so I come out for a walk. But who are you ? 
[/<?/;z//;/^ /<? Cinderella] , and you? [pointing to 
Red Riding-Hood.] 

Red Riding-Hood. I am Red Riding-Hood, 
a very celebrated character. 

Cinderella. And I am Cinderella. 

Sleeping Beauty. I never heard of either oi 
you before. 

Red Riding-Hood. That's because you 
have been sleeping so long. 

Sleeping Beauty. Well, I shall surely go to 
sleep again if my Prince does not return pretty 
soon. I'd rather be asleep than be lonesome. 
But who is that coming ? 

[Enter Gold Spinner (i?.).] 

Cinderella. Oh, that is Gold Spinner. 
Surely you have heard of her. . 

Sleeping Beauty. No, I never have. 

Red Riding-Hood. Well, I'm glad I haven't 
been asleep so long. That's worse than going 
back and forth to my grandmother's, because I 
do hear a little news now and then. 

Cinderella. And I would rather wear rags all 
my life than to sleep so many years. 

Gold Spinner [sha?piy). But why do you 
stand here, Cinderella, idly chatting? Don't 
you know you have been sent for ? But if there 
isn't Sleeping Beauty ! Good morning to you. 
I am glad to see you awake. 

Sleeping Beauty. I thank you, but why are 
you hurrying Cinderella away ? Surely, nobody 
wants her, unless it is to clean the pots and 
kettles. 

Gold Spinner. Indeed, there you make a 
very great mistake. My eldest son, who, you 
remember, is the one that the bad Lumber- 
leg 

Sleeping Beauty. Why no, what is it about 
Lumberleg ? I never heard of him before. 

Red RiDiNG-HooD. .Oh, she doesn't know 
anything hardly. She hadn't even heard of me ! 

Gold Spinner. Well, I declare, are you 
there, Little Red Riding- Hood ? You do beat 
all the children I ever saw for getting out of 



316 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



tight places. Of course, Sleeping Beauty can't 
be expected to know all about these stirring 
events, since she has been asleep so long. But 
come, Cinderella, why don't you hurry along? 
You know the Prince will marry you, if the 
slipper fits you, and a prince like him is not to 
be found every day. 

Red Riding-Hood. Oh, poor Cinderella, I 
•jon't believe that I should want to marry even 
a prince. That's worse than being eaten by a 
wolf, because when you're in, you can't get out. 

Sleeping Beauty fsighifig). No, indeed, I 
wouldn't advise any one to marry a prince. 

Cinderella. But my Prince is different from 
ell the others — so lovely, so charming. 
[Exit (^^.) Tunning.'\ 

Sleeping Beauty. But what in the world 
can he want with that little rag-a-muffin ? 

Gold Spinner. Oh, Cinderella is very lovely 
in spite of her old clothes, and my son is wise 



enough to know it. Oh, but it was a happy day 
for me when I found out old Lumberleg's name. 

Sleeping Beauty. Do tell me about old 
Lumberleg. May be it will drive away my 
lonesomeness. 

Gold Spinner. Well, come with me, and I 
will tell you all about him. Good-bye, Little 
Red Riding Hood. ^ 

Sleeping Beauty. Oh, yes, I almost forgot 
you. Good-bye. Come up to the palace some 
day and see me. 

\Exit (^.) Sleeping Beauty and Gold Spin- 
ner, arm in arm^ 

Red Riding Hood (^calling after theni) good- 
bye {^facing the audience'). And now I must 
hurry along. I've stood here so long, I'm afraid 
grand-mother's soup is cold. I hope I shan't 
meet any wolves to-day. 

[Exit (Z.).] 



TABLEAUX. 

you can't find me. 



f^\ CHAIR with a large shawl carelessly 

I— I arranged over it. A child's smiling face 

/ peeping out from behind the drapery, 

while its body is hidden. One hand holds 

the drapery aside from the face. 

the match-boy. 
A small boy in ragged jacket, and old hat 
pushed back from his forehead, holding a large 
package under his arm, and some boxes of 
matches in his extended hand. A little girl 
handsomely dressed, with open pocket-book in 
hand and a pitying look on her face is holding 
a coin ready to give to the boy. 

dolly's doctor. 
A little girl seated with a doll on her lap. 
A doll's baby-coach or cradle stands beside. A 
boy with high silk hat and long coat touching 
the floor, with watch in one hand, is holding the 
wrist of the doll as if feeling its pulg^. A caba 
itands on the flgor beside him. 



raise the gates. 



Two small girls with hands joined and raised 
as in the game. A still smaller child is about 
passing under the 'Agates." His hands are 
clasped behind him, and one foot is raised on 
tip-toe. His back is toward the audience, and 
his head stretched a little forward. 

TIRED OUT. 

A child asleep in a large chair. One arm 
thrown over the arm of the chair ; the other in 
his lap, having just loosened his hold of a 
picture-book, which lies open on his knee. His 
mouth is a little open, and his head drooped 
carelessly forward. 

PUTTING THE CHILDREN TO BED. 

A toy bedstead in which are placed two o 
three dolls. A little girl bending over the bed, 
with her hand in position for tucking in the bed* 
clothes. 




JOSEPH JEFFERSON and BLANCHE BENDER 

in "Rip Van Winkle." 

(Suggestion for Tableau.) 







'NDIAN costume-Suggestion for a Tableau 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



317 



SUNSHINE OR SHOWER. 

Three little girls with laughing faces are 
jfiuddled closely together under a large dilapi- 
dated umbrella. The umbrella, held open 
behind them, forms the back-ground of the 
picture. 

DRESSED FOR THE PARTY. 

Little girl in party dress, with fan partly open 
in her hand, is looking backward over her 
shoulder. Little boy, also in party dress, is 
holding a bouquet toward the girl. 



THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

A small boy holding a large slate, on which is 
partly drawn with chalk a ludicrous outline of a 
little girl. Standing near the boy is a little 
girl with the solemn look of importance on 
her face befitting the occasion of having her 
portrait made. The boy holds his crayon on 
the unfinished picture, and he is looking intently 
at the girl as if studying his subject. Card- 
board can be used when a large figure is wanted, 
one that can be seen at some distance. 



THE TRAIN TO MAURO. 

Characters: Mrs. Buttermilk, an elderly lady from the country; Mr. Bright, clerk at a railway 
station; Johnnie Buttermilk, a terrible child. 

Mr. Bright seated at a table ^ writing. Enter Mrs. Buttermilk, with a handbox, a carpet-bag^ an 
umbrella and a basket. Johnnie, with a satchel^ a bundle, a parasol and a fishing-rod. 




,RS. BUTTERMILK. Morning, sir! 

Mr. Bright (^coldly'). Good-morn- 
mg. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Fairish day] 

Mr. Bright {very stiffly'). Very pleasant, 
madam. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Is this the place where 
you take the train to Mauro? 

Mr. Bright. You can take a train here to- 
morrow, or any other day. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. I want to take the train 
to Mauro. 

Johnnie. No yo don't, ma. You want the 
train to take you. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. It's all the same. Are 
aU my things here — bandbox, carpet-bag, umbril, 
basket — you John, have you got all the things — 
bag, bundle, parasol? 

Johnnie. Yes, and my fishing-rod. 

Mr. Bright. If you don't want to leave to- 
day, you had better go over the way to a hotel. 
You cannot stay here all night. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Stay here all night ! 

Johnnie. Nobody wants to stay here. We' re 
going up to Aunt Susan's. 

Mr. Bright. Yovi said you wanted tc* go 
lo-morrow. 



Mrs. Buttermilk. Well, so we do. My 
old man's sister's son's wife is sick. 

Mr. Bright. I don't want to hear your 
family troubles. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. 'Taint my family. It's 
Buttermilk's sister's son's wife's got some kind 
o' sickness, come on sudden. She's powerful 
bad, ain't going to live, I reckon, so they sent 
for me, cause I'm the best nuss anywhere round, 
though I say it as shouldn't. 

Johnnie. You bet ! 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Not that I ever go out 
professional; but if folks sees fit to show their 
gratitude by a little present, like a dress or the 
like of that, I don't object to taking it. You 
see Buttermilk's sister's son's wife is always 
delicate, and this is a bad spell, I reckon. They 
wrote as if she was almost dead already. 

Mr. Bright. I should think you would go 
to-day. You seem all prepared. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Ain't I going, as soon as 
the train comes along to Mauro? 

Mr. Bright. Why don't you wait till to- 
morrow? Where are you going? 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Don't I tell you I'm 
going to Mauro. — Got all the things safe, 
Johuiiie ? 



318 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



Johnnie. Yes, ma. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Bandbox, carpet-bag^ 
umbril, basket, bag, bundle, parasol? 

Johnnie. And fishing-rod. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Young man, what are 
you writing? 

Mr. Bright {coldly). A report of an acci- 
dent on the road. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Oh, mercy! Oh! Are 
we going to have an accident? I won't go ! 
I won't stir a step. Young man, can't )^ou 
write a line for me to my sister-in-law's son's 
wife to say I can't come ? 

Mr. Bright. You need not be alarmed. 
The accident took. place a week ago. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Oh, it's over. When is 
the next one ? 

Mr. Bright. Pshaw ! 

Johnnie. He don't know, ma ! He 
wouldn't tell if he did, for fear folks would stay 
to home. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. So they would, Johnnie. 
Well, I'm glad it is over for this time. What 
did they do, young man ? 

Mr. Bright. Ran over a cow. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Dear me ! Was she 
hurt, poor thing ? 

Mr. Bright. She was taken up in three 
pieces. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. You don't say so ! 

Johnnie. Dear me, what a fuss about a cow ! 
Is all that writing about it ? 

Mr. Bright. Yes, it is. The cow threw the 
train off the track; thirty people were killed, 
sixty injured ; the locomotive smashed to pieces, 
and five cars shattered. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. I'm going home ! 

Johnnie. Oh, pshaw, ma ! I want to go 
iishing. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Fishing .' Thirty killed ! 
Young man, did you say thirty ? 

Mr. Bright. Yes, ma'am. 

Johnnie. Never mind, ma ! It is all over, 
and you want to show Aunt Susan your new 
false front. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Johnnie I You awful 



bad boy ! You'll kill your mother, and you* It 
have a step-mother then, who'll beat you. 

Johnnie. Don't you worry, ma f VW.haze\i(tx. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. When 'II that train be 
along, young man ? 

Mr. Bright. What train ? 

Mrs. Buttermilk. The ten-forty train. 

Mr. Bright {pettishly). At ten-forty, of 
course. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. That's the one that goes 
to Mauro, ain't it? 

Mr. Bright. Of course it goes to-morrow. 
It goes every day. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Oh ! ^You see, young 
man, it's some way for me to come down here, 
for I live fifteen miles back in the country. 

Mr. Bright. I don't want to know where 
you live 

Mrs. Buttermilk. And Mr. Jenk's uncle's 
daughter's husband was a coming over with 
market truck ; they've taken the corner farm this 
season, and are doing pretty well in garden sass 
and berries. 

Mr. Bright. I don't want to hear all this. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. As I was saying, Mr. 
Jenk's uncle's son-in-law was coming over, and 
he stopped round to our place, and says he — • 
Mrs. Buttermilk, says he, I hear you're going up 
to town to take the train ! 

Mr. Bright. See here, boy, can't you make 
your mother be quiet ? I want to write. 

Johnnie {^grinning). That's a good one. / 
make her. Suppose 7^^/ try. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Shut up, John. Well, 
sir, as I was saying, Mr. Jenk's uncle's daugh- 
ter's husband brought me over with as fine a lot 
of early greens as ever grew in our parts. It 
beats me how they was ever raised on that 
miserable old place. It must be out of his 
books and papers. He's a powerful hand for 
reading, and I must say he's a first-rate hand on 
a farm. His pigs are pictures ! If you want 
garden sass any time, young man, I'll get hmi 
to stop here. 

Mr. Bright {crossly). You needn't trouble 

^'OU^cislf. 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



819- 



Mrs. Buttermilk. 'Tain't a mite o' 
trouble. I see him every market-day, 'cause he 
. brings my butter. 

Mr. Bright. I don't want any garden sass. 
Mrs. Buttermilk. Dear me ! Now some 

- folks is so fond of it, when it comes in fresh. 

Mr. Bright. I'm not ! 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Powerful stupid, waiting 
here ain't it? You see I had to come in early 
to get a seat in the wagon. 

Johnnie. Ma ! 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Well, John, what is it, 
n(P7ej^ Your tongue's always running. Nobody 
else gets a chance to put a word in sidev/ays 
when you get started. 

Johnnie. Ma, I'm hungry. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Well, I do believe that's 
■ what ails me ! I thought I feltfaintish, (^Opens 

- her basket.') Here's the plaster for your Aunt 
Susan.. Ever have the rheumatiz, young man ? 

Mr. Bright. Never ! 

Mrs. Buttermilk. I'll send you some of my 
rheumatiz plasters, if you have. Cure you, 
sure ! 

(^Futs the plaster on bench.') 

Johnnie. Come, ma,' hurry up, and find 
some gingerbread. 

Mrs. Buttermilk {taking out a bottle). 
Here's the yarb tea for your uncle. Ever have 
^ the asthma, young man ? 
K Mr. Bright. No ! 

^tMRS. Buttermilk. I could leave you a little " 
^^phis tea, if you had. Best thing in the world 
^f you should ever feel wheezy. Bless your 
heart, they send from all round the country for 
my yarb tea for asthma. 

{Puts bottle on bench. ) 

Johnnie. Come, ma ! 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Dear me, Johnnie ! 
How came you to put worms in here ? 

( Takes out a paper box. ) 

Johnnie. Well, if I didn't look high and 
low for that bait. You must have got them off 
the kitchen table, ma ! 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Well, there's lots more 



to be had, if those were lost. Ever go fishing, 
young man ? 

Mr. Bright. Never ! 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Might a had some o* 
John's bait just as well as not. {Takes outi 
another box.) Here's the roots for the drink in 
case of fever. Are you subject to fever, young 
man ! 

Mr. Bright. Not at all ! 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Pity, now, ain't it? 
Could have left you some of these roots just as 
well as not. 

Mr. Bright {sarcastically). You are very 
kind. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Well, I like to be neigh- 
borly when I can. You look sorter peaked, 
young man I Ain't you sickly? Better come 
up country for a spell. 

Johnnie. I say, ma! I'll starve to death 
before you find that gingerbread. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Bless my heart, John, I 
forgot all about it. - ( Takes out a roll of white 
cloth.) Why, here's my nightcap. I clean 
forgot I put it in there ! Wouldn't I a had a 
pretty hunt for that, if I had not jest a found it ! 
Wear a nightcap, young man ? 

Mr. Bright. No, I don't. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. There's some of Butter- 
milk's you might have had just as well as not 
They're too big for Johnnie, and the moths 
likely '11 make an end of them before he grows 
to them. 

Johnnie. I'll grow to them before you find 
that gingerbread, if you don't make haste, ma! 

Mrs. Buttermilk {putting roll on bench). 
Dear me, Johnnie, I wish you had a little 
patience. ( Takes out a paper bundle. ) Here's 
my tallow candles, in case there's night-watch- 
ing, for your Aunt Susan will burn that awful 
kerosene, and I'm as afraid as death of it, ever 
since my cousin's neice's husband's first wife's 
child was burned to death by the explosion of 
the lamp put side of his bed for him to go to 
sleep, and he upset it onto the bed-clothes, arid 
was burned to a cinder right in his own night- 
gown. I've never burned a bit of kerosene 



I 



820 



DIALOGUES AND TABLEAUX. 



since I heard of it. It gave me such a turn, I 
was sick for a week. Burn kerosene, young 
man? 

Mr. Bright. I'd like to drown you in a 
barrel of it ! 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Now I don't call that 
neighborly; I wouldn't want to serve you so. 
(^Puts bundle on the bench. ) I was going to say 
I could spare you one or two of my candles, and 
they're good, for I made them myself. 

Mr. Bright. Then you'd better burn them 
yourself. 

Johnnie. Found that gingerbread yet, ma? 

Mrs. Buttermilk {taking out the articles as 
she names them, and putting them on bench^ . 
Here's the fine-tooth comb, and your tooth- 
brush, and the hands and face soap from the 
store — hard yellow soap just as good, to my 
notion — and the hair brush and comb, and your 
box of blacking, John, and the hair-ile, and the 
almanac, and — ^here's the gingerbread. 

(Mr. Bright rises. ) 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Where are you going, 
young man ? 

Mr. Bright. Time for the train. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. My train ? 

Mr. Bright. I thought you were not going 
until to-morrow. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. So I am going to Mauro. 
That's where my husband's sister's son's wife is 
sick, at Mauro. 

Mr. Bright, I do believe you are going to 
Mauro. 



Mrs. Buttermilk. Havn't I been sayiug so, 
all along ? Of course I'm going there. 

Mr. Bright. Well, you'll have to hurry. 
I hear the train now, and it only stops a minute 
or two. 

Mrs. Buttermilk. You don't say so. 
Johnnie, help me put the things in the basket 
{Scrambling them all together, dropping them or., 
the floor, trying to cram them in the basket 
hastily all the time she is talking. ) Dear me. 
I've busted the candle bag, and my string's off 
my yarbs. Johnnie, you awful boy, pick up 
that bottle. Oh, I never was so flustercated in 
my life. I'll miss the train now, John, all for 
your being so long over that gingerbread. 
Where's my night-cap? There, it's rolled clear 
across the floor. Go pick it up, Johnnie. They 
won^t go in ! They all came out of this basket, 
and they must go in. Where's the plaster for 
Aunt Susan's rheumatiz? Oh, young man, 
don't stand gaping there, but help me, can't 
you? 

Mr. Bright. Train's in ! 

{Saunters out.') 

Mrs. Buttermilk. Come, Johnnie ! Oh^ 
we'll never git the things. 

( Gathers them all up helter skelter, and runs 
out, dropping them all along on the floor,) 

Johnnie. I'm coming? {Runs after Mrs. 
Buttermilk, picking up the articles dropped, and 
dropping others as fast. Both go off. ) 

S. A. Frost. 



m 



Constitution and By-Lai^ts 



FOR 



ORGANIZING AND CONDUCTING LYCEUxMS AND 

LITERARY SOCIETIES. 



fT is necessary for all permanent associations 
formed for mutual benefit to have a Con- 
stitutiott by which they shall be governed. 

Where it is intended to organize a society for 
the intellectual improvement or social enjoy- 
ment of its members, a number of persons meet 
together and select a name for the organization. 
The next step is to appoint a committee, whose 
duty it shall be to prepare a Constitution and 
code of By-Laws for the society. These must 
be reported to the society at its next meeting, 
and must be adopted by the votes of a majority 
of that body before they can take effect. 

The Constitution consists of the rules which 
form the foundation upon which the organiza- 
tion is to rest. It should be brief and explicit. 
It should be considered and adopted section by 
section ; should be recorded in a book for that 
purpose, and should be signed by all the mem- 
bers of the society. 

Amendments to the Constitution should be 
adopted in the same way, and should be signed 
by each member of the society. 

In the addition to the Constitution it is usual 
to adopt a series of minor rules, which should 
be explanatory of the principles of the Constitu- 
tion. These are termed By-Laws^ and should 
be recorded in the same book with the Constitu- 
tion, and immediately after it. New by-laws 
may be added from time to time, as the necessity 
for them may arise. It is best to have as few as 
possible. They should be brief, and so clear 
that their meaning may be easily comprehended, 
and should govern the action of the body. 
21 



CONSTITUTION. 

As growth and development of mind, together 
with readiness and fluency of speech, are the 
result of investigation and free discussion of 
religious, educational, political, and other topics, 
the undersigned agree to form an association, 
and for its government, do hereby adopt the 
following Constitution : 

Article I. — The name and title of this organi- 
zation shall be 

" The Athenian Literary Association," 

and its objects shall be the free discussion of any 
subject coming before the meeting for the pur- 
pose of diffusing knowledge among its members. 

Article II. — The officers of the Association 
shall consist of a President, two Vice-Presidents, 
a Corresponding Secretary, a Recording Secre- 
tary, a Treasurer and a Librarian, who shall be 
elected annually by ballot, on the first ^londay 
in January of each year, said officers to hold 
their position until their successors are elected. 

Article III. — It shall be the duty of the 
President to preside at all public meetings of the 
Society. The first Vice-President shall preside 
in the absence of the President, and in case of 
the absence of both President and Vice-Presi- 
dent, it shall be the duty of the second Vice- 
President to preside. 

The duty of the Secretary shall be to conduct 
the correspondence, keep the ,ecords of the 
Society, and read at each meeting a report of the 
work done at the preceding meeting. 

321 



322 



CONSTITUTION AND BY-LAWS FOR LYCEUMS. 



The Treasurer shall keep the funds of the 
Society, making an annual report of all moneys 
received, disbursed, and the amount on hand. 

It shall be the duty of the Librarian to keep, 
in a careful manner, all books, records and 
manuscripts in the possession of the Society. 

Article IV. — There shall be appointed by the 
President, at the first meeting after his election, 
the following standing committees, to consist of 
three members each, namely : On lectures, 
library, finance,, and printing, whose duties shall 
be designated by the President. 

The question for debate at the succeeding 
meeting shall be determined by a majority vote 
of the members present. 

Article V. — Any lady or gentleman mav 
become a member of this Society by the consent 
of the majority of the members present, the 
signing of the Constitution, and the payment of 
two dollars as membership fee. It shall be the 
privilege of the Society to elect any person 
whose presence may be advantageous to the 
Society, an honorary member who shall not be 
required to pay membership fees or dues. 

Article VL — This association shall meet 
weekly, and at such other times as a majority, 
consisting of at least five members of the associa- 
tion, snail determine. The President shall be 
authorized to call special meetings upon the 
written request of any five members of the 
Society, at which meetings one-third of the 
members shall be sufficient to constitute a 
quorum for the transaction of business. 

Article VII. — It shall be the duty of the 
finance committee to determine the amount of 
dues necessary to be collected from each member, 
and to inform the Treasurer of the amount, who 
shall promptly proceed to collect the same at 
such times as the committee may designate. 

Article VIII. — The parliamentary rules and 
general form of conducting public meetings, a,s 
shown in the *' Constitution and By-Laws for 
Lyceums," shall be the standard authority in 
governing the deliberations of this association. 

Article IX. — Any member neglecting to pay 



dues, or who shall be guilty of improper con 
duct, calculated to bring this association into 
disrepute, shall be expelled from the membership 
of the Society by a two-thirds vote of the 
members present at any regular meeting. No 
member shall be expelled, however, until he 
shall have had notice of such intention on tht 
part of the association, and has been given an 
opportunity of being heard in his own defense. 

Article X. — By giving written notice of 
change at any regular meeting, this Constitution 
may be altered or amended at the next stated 
meeting by a vote of two-thirds of the members 
present. 

BY-LA WSo 

Rule i. — No question shall be stated unless 
moved by two members, nor be open for con- 
sideration until stated by the chair. When a 
question is before the society, no motion shall be 
received, except to lay on the table, the previous 
question, to postpone, to refer, or to amend ; 
and they shall have precedence in the order in 
which they are here arranged. 

Rule 2. — When a member intends to speak 
on a question, he shall rise in his place, and 
respectfully address his remarks to the President, 
confine himself to the question, and avoid per- 
sonality. Should more than one member rise to 
speak at the same time, the President shall 
determine who is entitled to the floor. 

Rule 3. — Every member shall have the privi- 
lege of speaking three times on any question 
under consideration, but not oftener, unless by 
the consent of the society (determined by vote); 
and no member shall speak more than once, 
until every member wishing to speak shall have 
spoken. 

Rule 4.-— The President, while presiding, 

shall state every question coming before the 

society ; and immediately before putting it to 

vote shall ask: ''Are you ready for the ques- 

! tion?" Should no member rise to speak, he 

I shall rise to put the question ; and after he has 

( risen no member shall speak upon it, unless by 

j permission of the society. 



CONST ITU nON AND BY-LAWS FOR LYCEUMS. 



323 



I 



Rule 5. — The affirmative and negative of the 
question having been both put and answered, 
the President declares the number of legal votes 
cast, and whether the affirmative or negative 
have it. 

Rule 6. — All questions, unless otherwise fixed 
by law, shall be decided by a majority of votes. 

Rule 7. — After any question, except one of 
indefinite postponement, has been decided, any 
member may move a reconsideration thereof, if 
done m two weeks after the decision. A motion 
for reconsideration the second time, of the same 
•juestion, shall not be in order at any time. 

Rule 8. — Any two members may call for a 
division of a question, when the same will admit 
of it. 

Rule 9. — The President, or any member^ 
may call a member to order while speaking, 
when the debate must be suspended, and the 
member take his seat until the question of order 
is decided. 

Rule 10. — The President shall preserve order 
and decorum; may speak to points of order in 
preference to other members ; and shall decide 
all questions of order, subject to an appeal to the 
society by any member, on v/hich appeal no 
person shall speak but the President and the 
member called to order. 

Rule ii. — No motion or proposition on a 
.iubject different from that under consideration 
shall be admitted under color of an amendment. 

»Rule 12. — No addition, alteration, or amend- 
ment to the Constitution, By-Laws, etc., shall 
be acted upon, except in accordance with the 
i» Constitution. 

w^k Rule 13. — No nomination shall be considered 
^Bfi made until seconded. 

^H Rule 14. — The President shall sign all pro- 
^■teedings of the meetings. 

Rule 15. — No member shall vote by proxy. 

Rule 16. — No motion shall be withdrawn by 

the mover unless the second withdraw his second. 

Rule i 7 — No extract from any book shall be 

li-ad consuming more than five minutes. 



Rule 18. — No motion for adjournment shall 
be in order until after nine o'clock. 

Rule 19. — Every motion shall be reduced to 
writing, should the officers of the society desire it 

Rule 20. — An amendment to an amendmei.^ 
is in order, but not to amend an amendment t, 
an amendment of a main question. 

Rule 21. — The previous question shall be put 
in this form, if seconded by a majority of the 
members present : ''Shall the main question be 



put! 



If decided in the affirmative, the main 



question is to be put immediately, and all further 
debate or amendment must be suspended. 

Rule 22. — Members not voting shall be con- 
sidered as voting in the affirmative, unless 
excused by the society. 

Rule 23. — Any memb:- OLering a protest 
against any of the proceedings of this society 
may have the same, if, in respectful language, 
entered in full upon the minutes. 

Rule 24. — No subject laid on the table shall 
be taken up again on the same evening. 

Rule 25. — No motion shall be debatable 
until seconded. 

Rule 26. — Points of order are debatable to 
the society. 

Rule 27. — ^Appeals and motions to reconsider 
or adjourn are not debatable. 

Rule 28. — ^Vhen a very important motion or 
amendment shall be made and seconded, the 
mover thereof may be called upon to reduce the 
same to writing, and hand it in at the table, 
from which it shall be read, open to the society 
for debate. 

Rule 29. — The mover of a motion shall beat 
liberty to accept any amendment thereto ; but 
if an amendment be offered and not accepted, 
yet duly seconded, the society shall pass upon it 
before voting upon the original motion. 

Rule 30. — Every officer, on leaving his office, 
shall give to his successor all papers, documents, 
books or money belonging to the society. 

Rule 31. — No smoking, and no refreshments, 
exceot water, shall be allowed in the society's halL 



324 



CONSTITUTION AND BY-LAWS FOR LYCEUMS. 



Rule 32. — When a motion to adjourn is car- 
ried, no member shall leave his seat until the 
President has left his chair. 

Rule 33. — No alteration can be made in these 
rules of order without a four-fifth vote of the 
society, and two weeks' notice ; neither can 
they be suspended, but by a like vote, and then 
for the evening only. 



PARIAMENTARY RULES AND USAGES. 

The following are the complete rules, in a 
plain and compact form, for conducting a public 
meeting : 

Quorum. 

A quorum is a sufficient number of the mem- 
bers of an association to legally transact business. 
Unless a quorum is present no business is in 
order, except to adjourn. A majority of the 
members constitutes a natural quorum, but the 
by-laws of the association may prescribf a 
smaller number. 

Ttie Chairman. 

It is the duty of the chairman to open the 
meeting at the time fixed upon, by taking the 
chair, calling the house to order, to announce 
the business before the house in the order in 
which it is to be acted upon ; to receive and 
submit all motions ; to put to vote all questions 
which are regularly moved, or which neces- 
sarily arise in the course of proceedings, and to 
announce the result ; to restrain every one, 
when engaged in debate, within the rules of 
order ; to enforce the observance of order and 
decorum ; to appoint committes ; to authenti- 
cate by his signature, when necessary, all the 
acts and proceedings of the house, and generally 
to declare its will. 

He may speak to points of order in preference 
to others : shall decide all questions of order, 
and if the house is evenly divided he may give 
the casting vote, in doing which, he may, if he 
pleases, give his reasons. 

The Clerk. 

It is the duty of the clerk or secretary to keep 



correct minutes of the proceedings of the house; 
to read all papers when ordered, and for this 
purpose he should always rise ; to call the roll, 
and state the answer when a vote is taken by^ 
yeas and nays ; to have the custody of all 
papers and documents, and to authenticate the 
acts and proceedings of the house bv Sis signa- 
ture. 

Committees. 

Standing committees sit permanently ; special 
committees perform only some particular duty, 
when they are discharged. The person first- 
named is usually regarded as chairman, but this 
is only a matter of courtesy ; every committee 
has a right to select its own chairman. Custom, 
however, has practically taken away this right, 
and it is considered bad form to elect any other 
person than the first-named as chairman. The 
mover of a motion to commit, should be placed 
on the committee and first-named, except where 
the matter committed concerns him personally. 
In the appointment of the committee no person 
directly opposed to the measure committed 
should be named, and when any person who is 
thus opposed to same, hears himself named of 
its committee he should ask to be excused. 

The chair appoints all committees. Com- 
mittees do not adjourn, but, when they have con- 
cluded their deliberations, should rise and 
report. The report should be presented by the 
chairman. When the report is received the 
committee is discharged and cannot act further 
without new power. 

Any committee required or entitled to report 
upon a subject referred to them may make a 
majority or minority report, while any member 
of such committee dissenting in whole or in 
part, from either the conclusion or the reasoning 
of both the majority and minority, may also 
present a statement of his reasons for such dis- 
sent, which should be received in connection 
with the reports. 

The committee of the whole is an expedient 
to simplify the business of legislative bodies. 
No record is made of its proceedings. The pre- 
siding officer puts the question, and, if same is 



CONSTITUTION AND BY-LAWS FOR LYCEUMS. 



325 



carried, appoints some person as chairman and 
then vacates the chair. 

Motions. 

Propositions made to a deliberative assembly 
are called motions ; when the proposition is put 
to vote it is called the question. A motion 
cannot be entertained or the question put, until 
the same has been seconded. After this it 
becomes the property of the house, and cannot 
be withdrawn except by leave. It must be in 
writing whenever the house or presiding officer 
requires it, and must be read when any person 
demands it for information. 

An exception to the rule requiring a second 
to a motion is made in cases when the proposi- 
tion is to proceed with or to execute an order of 
the house j as where it is moved to proceed with 
an order of the day, or where a call is made for 
the enforcement of some order relating to the 
u observance of decorum. 

jr No motion can be made while a speaker has 
the floor, nor while another motion is pending^ 
except it be a question of privilege. 

Amendments. 

»A motion may be amended by inserting or 
, ■ adding words, or by striking out words, or by 
striking out and inserting words. An amend- 
ment takes precedence of the original question 
and must be first decided. So, too, an amend- 
ment to an amendment must be decided before 
the amendment. A motion may be made to 
amend, after which a motion will be to amend 
the amendment, but this is the full limit of the 
rule by which one motion may be put upon 
another. A motion to amend the second amend- 
ment is not in order. 

Questions of privilege cannot be amended, 
except that a motion to postpone can be 
r amended as to time. 

The Question. 

' The question is first to be put on the affirma- 

tive and then on the negative side; the vote in 
"aost cases being by oral response. If there are 



doubts as to the voice of the majority, any one 
may call for a division. In all cases where the 
house is equally divided the question is lost, 
unless the presiding officer affirms it by a casting 
vote. 

AVhen a division is had, those in the affirma- 
tive on the question should first rise and be 
counted, or, if there still be a doubt, or a coun^ 
be called for, the chairman should appoint two 
tellers, one from each side, to make the count 
and report the same to the chairman, who should 
then declare the same to the house. 

In small matters of routine business of triffeng 
importance, such as receiving reports, withd: aw- 
ing motions, etc., the presiding officer may 
suppose the consent of the house where no objec- 
tion is expressed, and need not give t\<em the 
trouble of putting the question forr^aUy. 

A question should always be stated by the 
chair before it is put, after which it is open to 
debate. Questions may be stated by the chair 
while sitting, but he should always rise to put a 
question, and should use substantially this form: 
*As many as are of the opinion that (as the 
question maybe) will say aye;" and after the 
affirmative voice is expressed, **As many as are 
of a contrary opinion, will say no. " He declares 
the vote. 

After a question has been put it is not de- 
batable, but after the affirmative is put any 
person who has not >poken before to the question 
may arise and speak before the negative is put. 

Division of Question. 

Any person may call for the division of a 
question if it comprehend propositions, in sub- 
stance so distinct, that, one being taken away, 
a substantive proposition shall remain for ^^ 
cision. 

Wncn a question is divided, after the question 
on the first part, the second is open to debate 
and amendment. 

Privileged Questions. 

When a question is under debate, no motion 
shall be received, except to adjourn ; to lay on 



326 



CONSTITUTION AND BY-LAWS FOR LYCEUMS. 



ihe table ; for the previous question ; to 
postpone to a certain day ; to commit ; to 
amend ; to postpone indefinitely. These 
motions have precedence in the order in 
which they stand arranged, and are called 
privileged questions. 

A motion to adjourn is always in order and 
'iakes precedence of all other motions, and an 
order of the day takes the place of all questions 
txcept adjournment. 

When a matter has been laid on the table it 
may be taken up at any time afterward and con- 
sidered, but not at the same meeting or session 
fl.t which it was tabled. Frequently this motion 
is made to finally dispose of the matter, and it 
always has ihh effect when no motion is after- 
ward made to take it up. The proper motion 
for proceeding with a matter that has been 
ordered to lie on the table, is, that the house do 
now procc^ed to consider that matter, although it 
would be yToper to move that the matter be 
taken up for consideration. 

There are several questions which, being inci- 
dental to every one, will take the place of every 
one, privileged or not; as a question of order 
arising out of any other question must be decided 
before that question. 

A motion for indefinite postponement is gen- 
erally resorted to in order to suppress a question 
or prevent its coming to vote. 

Previous Question. 

When any question is before the house any 
member may move that the question (called the 
main question) be now put, or, as it is usually 
termed, may move the previous question. If it 
pass in the affirmative, tiien the main question is 
to be put immediately, and no further debate is 
permitted. 

The previous question being moved and 
seconded, the question from the chair should be, 
'''■ Shall the main question be now put?" If the 
nays prevail the main question remains as the 
question before the house, in the same stage of 
proceedings as before the previous question was 
rriQved, 



Equivalent Questions. 

Where questions are perfectly equivalent, so 
that the negative of the one amounts to the 
affirmative of the other, and leaves no other 
alternative, the decision of the one necessarily 
concludes the other. Thus the negative of 
striking out amounts to the affirmative of agree- 
ing ; and, therefore, to put a question on agree- 
ing after that of striking out, would be to pui 
the same question in effect twice over. 

Questions of Order. 

It is the duty of the chairman to decide all 
questions of order v/henevcr raised. Upon 
such questions no debate or discussion is in order, 
but if the decision is not satisfactory, any one 
may object to it and appeal to the house. On 
appeal being taken, the question should be, 
''Shall the decision of the chair stand as the 
judgment of the house?" Whereupon the 
question may be debated and discussed the same 
as any other question. 

Commitment. 

Any measure may be referred to a committee 
on motion. This motion stands in the same 
degree with the previous question and postpone- 
ment, and, if first made, takes precedence cf 
them. A motion to commit may be amended 
by the substitution of one kind of committee foi 
another, or by enlarging or diminishing the 
number of the members of the committee, as 
originally proposed, or by instructions to the 
committee. 

After a measure has been committed and 
reported, it should not, in an ordinary course, 
be recommitted, but in cases of importance, and 
for special reasons, it is sometimes recommitted, 
and usually to the same committee. 

Reconsideration. 

AVhen a motion or question shall have been 
determined, either in the afifimative or negative, 
it is always in order for any one who voted with 
the maJ^^'ty, or in case the vote was equally 



'CONSTITUTION AND BY-LAWS FOR LYCEUMS. 



32? 



divided, for one who voted in the negative, to 
move for a reconsideration thereof. Such motion 
must be made at the samet meeting at which the 
former vote was taken. A motion to reconsider, 
being put and lost, cannot be renewed. 

Undebatable Motions. 

A motion to adjourn ; to lay on the table, 
and a call for the previous question, must be 
decided without debate. And all incidental 
questions of order, arising after a. motion is 
made for either of the foregoing questions, must 
be decided, whether on appeal or otherwise, 
without debate. 

Order in Debate. , 

When a person means to speak, he is to stand 
Up in his place, uncovered, and address himself 
to the chair, who calls him by name, that all 
may take notice who it is that speaks. A person 
who is indisposed may be indulged to speak 
sitting. 

When a person rises to speak, no question is 
to be put, but he is to be heard undisturbed, 
unless overruled. 

If two or more rise to speak nearly together, 
the chair determines who was first up and calls 
him by name, whereupon he proceeds, ynless he 
voluntarily sits down and yields the floor to the 
other. 

No one may speak more than twice to the 
same question without the consent of the house, 
except merely to explain himself in some 
material part of his speech, or to the manner of 
the words in question, keeping himself to that 
only and not going into the merits of it. 

If the chairman rises to speak, the person 
standing must sit down, that the chair may be 
first heard. 

No one is to speak impertinently, or beside 
the question, or to use indecent language against 
the proceeding of the house. Nor should a 
person in speaking, mention another then present, 
by his name, but should describe him by his 
seat, or as' *' the gentleman who spoke last," or, 
"on the other side of the question, ' ' etc. 



Any one when called to order by another or 
by the chair, must sit down, and not proceed 
without leave until the question of order shall 
have been decided by the chair. 

While the presiding officer is addressing i\j 
house or putting a question, no one should ciosi 
the floor or leave the room; nor while anothti 
is speaking, walk between him and the chair. 

A motion to adjourn is not susceptible of 
amendment. If it is desirable to adjourn to any 
particular place or time, this may be accom- 
plished by a previous resolution to that effect. 



SUBJECTS FOR DISCUSSION. 

1. Which would be of greater benefit to th<? 
country, a Protective Tariff", or a Tariff fol 
Revenue Only? 

2. Ought Laws to be Enacted for Restricting 
Foreign Immigration? 

3. Does More Evil than Benefit Result froK 
Laws Permitting Divorce? 

4. Prohibition, or High License — Which? 

5. Which Was the Greater Orator, Demos- 
thenes or Cicero? 

Note. — The discussion of this question must 
include references to style, aim and effect; 
artistical, mental and moral power. 

6. Has the Fear of Punishment or the Hope 
of Reward, the Greater Influence on Human 
Conduct? 

Note. — This question involves considerations 
of great importance. It has to do with Educa- 
tion, Government and Religion. The fear of 
punishment is the principle usually supposed to 
influence us; and upon this principle, for the 
most part, education, laws, and religious instruc- 
tion are founded ; but many of the wisest men 
are beginning to doubt this system. 

7. Is Corporal Punishment Justifiable? 

8. Is a Classical Education a Benefit to a Man 
in Ordinary Business? 

9. Is Labor Justified in Organizing Against 
Capital ? 

10. Should there be a Board of Arbitration 



328 



CONSTITUTION AND BY-LAWS FOR i./ CEUMS. 



Appointed by the Government for Settling Dis- 
putes between Employees and Employers? 

11. Is England Rising or Falling as a Nation ? 
Note. — Compare the Elements of Modern 

with the Elements of Ancient Prosperity. 

12. Has Nature or Education the Greater 
Influence in the Formation of Character? 

13. From which does the Mind gain the more 
Knowledge, Reading or Observation ? 

14. Is the Character of Queen Elizabeth 
deserving of our Admiration ? 

15. Is an Advocate Justified in Defending a 
Man whom he Knows to be Guilty of the Crime 
ft'ith which he is Charged ? 

16. Which does the most to Produce Crime — 
Poverty, Wealth, or Ignorance ? 

17. Is a Limited Monarchy, like that of 
England, the Best Form of Government? 

18. Is not Private Virtue essentially requisite 
!:o Greatness of Public Character? 

19. Is Eloquence a Gift of Nature, or may it 
oe Acquired? 

20. Is Genius an Innate Capacity? 

21. Is a Rude or a Refined Age the more 
Favorable to the Production of Works of Imagi- 
nation ? 

22. Is the Shakespearian the Augustan Age 
of English Literature? 

23. Ought Pope to Rank in the First Class of 
Poets ? 

24. Has the Introduction of Machinery been 
Generally Beneficial to Mankind ? 

2^. Which Produce the Greater Happiness, 
the Pleasures of Hope or of Memory ? 

26. Is the Existence of Parties in the State 
Favorable to the Public Welfare ? 

27. Is there any Ground for Believing in the 
Ultimate Perfection and Universal Happiness of 
rhe Human Race ? 

28. Is Co-operation more Adapted to Promote 
vhe Virtue and Happiness of Mankind than 
Competition ? 



29. Was the Banishment of Napoleon to St. 
Helena a Jutifiable Proceeding? 

30. Ought Persons to be Excluded from the 
Civil Offices on Account of their Religious 
Opinions ? 

31. Which Exercises the Greater Influence on 
the Civilization and Happiness of the Human 
Race, the Male or the Female Mind ? 

32. Which did the Most to Produce the 
French Revolution, the Tyranny of the Govern- 
ment, the Excesses of the Higher Orders, or the 
Writings of Voltaire, Montesquieu and Rous- 
seau? 

;^^. Which was the Greater Poet, Byron or 
Burns ? 

34. Is there Reasonable Groi^nd for Believing 
that the Character of Richard the Third was not , 
so Atrocious as is General Supposed ? 

35. Does Happiness 01 Misery Preponderate 
in Life ? 

^6. Should the Press be Totally Free? 

37. Do Modern Geological Discoveries Agree 
with Holy Writ ? 

^8. Did Circumstances Justify the First Frencl. 
Revolution ? 

39. Could not Arbitration be Made a Substi- 
tute for War ? 

40. Which Character is the More to be 
Admired, that of Loyola or Luther? 

41. Are there Good Grounds for Applying 
the Term " Dark " to the Middle Ages? 

42. Which was the Greater Poet, Chatterton 
or Cowper? 

43. Are Public or Private Schools to be Pre- 
ferred ? 

44. Is the System of Education Pursued at 
our Universities in Accordance with the Require- 
ments of the Age ? 

45. Which is the More Healthful Exercise, 
Bicycle Riding or Walking? 

46. Does the Game of Foot-Ball Produce 
more Evil than Beneficial Effects ? 



P ROGRAMS 



p 



FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS 

Selected from this Volume 

ERHAPS no form of entertainment is so universally popular, refining, instructive 
and generally satisfying as those of a literary and musical character. After an 
evening spent in the parlor of a friend where recitations, readings, music, dialogues 
and tableaux have been the form of entertainment, with what a healthful feeling 
of satisfaction one returns to his home. There is no lingering of regrets over time wasted ; 
no stings of conscience over indulgences which one's inner monitor has branded as wrong ; 
no mental debate over the doubtful question — **Was it right?" — None of those uneasinesses 
and "thorns in the flesh" w^iich disturb the sleep at night, **bob up" the first thing on 
awaking in the morning, and, perhaps, give one an occasional prod m the conscience for 
days after attending an entertainment of doubtful propriety, or an informal gathering where 
nothing special is to be done, and "Dame Gossip" is made the mistress of the hour. 

Why, then, do we not have more literary and musical programs to brighten and make 
beneficial our social gatherings ? It is not for want of an abundant supply of choice lilera- 
ture to> suit the occasion of any meeting, nor is it generally for lack of talent to render the 
selections ; but it is because of the difficulty experienced in selecting appropriate pieces, 
fitting them to che proper persons, and making up the programs. 

For the assistance of those who desire suggestions as to the best forms to be observed 
and the variety which should characterize the general entertainment, we have arranged the 
following special programs for such occasions as occur every year in every community. 

It would be impossible for us to anticipate and arrange programs for eveiy occasion 
which society may require ; but this book has been designed and compiled with the special 
object of gathering together the choicest gems of literature in the English language suiterl 
LO this demand for literary entertainment. It comprises descriptive, patriotic, historic, 
religious, pathetic, 'dialectic, dramatic and humorous selections, adapted to almost every 
class of entertainment. 

The following programs will serve as object lessons, or helpful guides, in selecting 
and arranging material suited to all occasions from the pages of this volume. 



329 



Program for Church or Sundav=School 

Entertainment 



Music — Organ Recital 

Words of Welcome — By Pastor or Sunday School Superintendent 

Music — Song; sung by audience, led by Church or Sunday-School Choir , 

Recitation — ''Little Christel'' (Poem, page 35) .., 

(Suited to a large girl. Recite in bright, descriptive style. Be careful to change 
tone and manner to suit characters of Christel and the King. ) 

Reading OR Recitation — ''Simon Gricbb's Drea7Jt'' (VoQrCi.,^3ige 150) 

(Appropriate for any good reciter.^ 
Music — Solo, Vocal or Instrumental. 
Recitation — "Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question'' (Prose, page 267) 

(Humorous ; adapted to a stout woman or girl, who can .speak with a strong Irish dialect 
The speaker should forget self, and be a straight out Irish "Biddy.") 

Dialogue and Tableau — "Little Red Riding-Hood'' (Page 300) 

(Arranged for six characters. For advice as to costumes, etc., see page 300. ) 

Music — Song by Quartette of Voices. 

Recitation (with music)— *' 77^^ Z<^^/ ^/ //^^ (T/^^/r" (Page 210) , 

(This pathetic selection is suited to a lady who can sing the verses. The voice should imitate 
the singing of an old lady. The speaker should impersonate an old woman.) 

Recitation — "Shall We Know Each Other TA^r^" (Page 207") . .... .... 

(Short poem ; quite an appropriate selection to follow the preceding recitation. 
If some old lady recite it the effect ^'ill be better. ) 

Music—' Song by the Congregation — " Shall We Gather at the River" 01" " Over There** 
Readinc — " The Death of Little Joe" {^2.gQ 201) 

(Best effect when read by gentleman who can awaken the deepest sympathy of the audience, with- 
out himself yielding to the emotion he must manifest. Very effective when well interpreted. ] 

Recitation — " Reverie in Church" {V^igQ 271) 

(Suited to young lady. The air should be that of a giddy devotee of fashion wto attends 
church to show her dress. To be spoken in a very sarcastic manner. ) 

Expression of Thanks — By Pastor or Sunday-School Superintendent, hoping that all have 
enjoyed the evening's entertainment and extending a cordial inv^itation to friends and 
strangers to attend the services of the Church and Sunday-School. 
" "" ^ ~ " " » - 

OPHER SELECTIONS: 

-- . Txr-/- / ) Humorous ; appropriate for big boy or man. Make the 

* 77ie Deacon Hunting a Wife" (Page 250) \ deacons motive plain, but appear as trying to con- 

J ceal it. 

'^ Home'' o . (Page I 50) I Reading; suitable to any good reader. 

^'Baby's Soliloquy*' (Page 286) | Humorous. LadyorgirL 

" The Cow and the Bishop " . . (Page 262) 

'• The Hypocondriac "... (Page 282) 1^^^°^^".^'. ^^°H^^ ^^ r^^it^d. or read ty a man in • 
•^J^ \ fc> / J complaining, discontented tone. 

hort pathetic poem ; suited to girl < 
and touching when well rendered. 

'*Sairy Jackson's Baby** . . . (Page 21 lU^^^^^^'"" ^ros^\ selection suited to any good teadw 
"^ •' \ t> / j who can speak the Negro dialect. 

'^IJimpV Ttm** ...... . (Pao-e 200U ^°^°^ ' ^^^^^^ *° '^^^ ^^J' ^^ S^^^- Pathetic, and teaxihw 

•^■^ > fc> ' J a lessor of love and charitv. 



fi 



** Little Dot" /p^ge 21 s)l^^*^^^?^^^— ^^P^^"^ ' ®"^^^^ ^^ ^^^^ °^^^^^ ' ^^^"^i^"' 



Program for School Entertainment 

Music — Orchestra, Band or Piano ; . 



\ 



Salutatory — '' Words of PF^/<r^w^" (Poem, page 67) . , , , • . • • ^ • 

(Suitable for a child of 6 or 8 years.) 

Recitation — *'A Boys Opinion " (Poem, page ^6) 

(For small boy.) 

f Recitation IN Concert — '' The Farmer'' {?dige yi) , » 

(Short piece for several boys. Different attitudes to be acted as indicated on page 71.) 
, Music — Song by the School (any appropriate selection) 
Declamation — ** Wealth and Work " (page 70) 

eSuited to one of the older boys. Should be spoken in a plain, practical business-like style.) 

Recitation — '^Grandma's Wedding Day'' (Page 216) ... 

(Suitable for young lady or large girl. ) 

Double Declamation — '' The Rival Orators'' (Page 289) 

(Big boy and small boy. Very amusing. ) 

Music — Flute, Piano, Violin or Guitar Solo. 

Declamation — '* Defence fro jn the Charge of Tyranny " (VdigQ 61) , 

(An impassioned declamation, to be spoken with force and dignity, but with a manifestation 
of a sense of great injustice done to the speaker.) 

Recitation — '' Guilty or Not Guilty" {Vd.gQ 220) 

(Pathetic ; suited to a girl of 14 or 15 years. Be careful to impersonate the judge and the prisoni^ 
well ; the reciter should forget herself and act the two parts naturaliy to make the piece effective. / 

Music —Solo, with chorus of voices. 

Recitation — " The Owl Critic " (Page 278) 

(Humorous ; adapted to young lady or large girl. ) 

^•EciTA.Tioiii'"^--'^ Modern Education" (VdigQ 2'/y) 

(Suited to young man or big boy. Must speak it in a bombastic- manner, showing great self-conceit 
and dignity ; the speaker must not laugh or appear to icnow he is making mistakes.) 

Music — By Band or Quartette of Instruments. 

Dialogue and Tableau — '' Young America" (VdigG 2^g) 

This interesting and instructive dialogue is arranged for five speakers, three children and two 
grown-up people. The Father and Aunt may be impersonated by two of the older scholars. 

Recitation — ''The Barons Last Banquet" {VdigQ 72) 

(Dramatic piece ; suited to young man capable of acting and giving proper elocutionary effect) 

Recitation — ''A Valedictojy" (Page 62) , . . 

(li entertainment is at close of session the above selection is suitable and 
should be recited by a boy or girl of 10 or 12 years. ) 

OTHER SELECTIONS : 
"A Junior Partner Wanted" . . (Page 62) | Suited to practical boy of 15. 

.< 7-) ,.,» /'Porr^ -/r\ \ Humorous and sarcastic; adapted to plain, positive 

■ ^^^ ^ (.^age 20; I speaking girl. 

^ Suited to big boy or young man ; might be presented 

i< Qj^^^^Jy. ^r T>^J T^^J,^*^* rT>^r^^ AQ\ V in tableaux with speaker dressed as Indian, and tlu 

Speech of Red Jacket . . . (Page 68) V minister and his friends seated near listening to bi.c 

J speech. 

•• The Lost Penny " (Page 226) | Suited to a very little girl. 

•' The Gladiator" (Page 133) ''Pompeii" (Page 140) 

** What is a Gentleman" . . . (Page 144) " Over the Crossing" (Page 24) 

** The Cat' s Bath" (Page 270) '' The Reason Why'' (Page 275) 



Program for Washington's Birthday 
Entertainment 



Mu5ic--~By the Band '* Hail to the Chief 

Music— -Song — " Columbia the Gem of the Ocean'' ....,..,.. Sung in Chorus 
Original Oration — ''Eulogy on Washington'' 

Military Drill — By Local Company (band music accompanying). 
Recitation — ''Nathan Hale" (Poem, page 22). 

(A descriptive poem suitable for young lady to recite. ) 
Music— By Band or Orchestra. 

Declamation — " The Supposed Speech of Regulus " (Prose, page 128). 

(A model of patriotism and honor. Should be delivered with great dignity and powerful force, em- 
ploying an air of conscious superiority. This is a masterpiece of patriotic oratorical literature. 
The speaker should fully comprehend and interpret it. ) 

Song — By the whole company . . ... ... ... . . . ' My Country 'Tis of Thee" 

Recitation — " The Roman Sentinel" (Poem, page 153). 

(A blank verse selection, showing a Washingtonian characteristic in choosing death rather than leave 
a post of duty. Should be recited by lady or gentleman possessing descriptive and dramatic 
talent.) • 

A Reverie — '* Supposed Return of George Washington to Earth" 

(What would George Tv a^nington say if he should arise from the dead and travel over this country? 
This can be made both humorous and instructive by a bright and witty speaker who imagines 
himself as awaking Washington from the dead and conducting him over the United States, 
starting from Mount Vernon and visiting the places Washington formerly knew and surprising 
him at every turn by the new inventions and wonderful developments since his death. This 
piece must be original and in length should be suited to the time which may be allowed.) 

Music— Male Quartette or Band. 

Patriotic Tableau — " Washington and His Generals " 

1. Washington, 4. Horatio Gates, 

2. Lafayette, 5. John Stark, 

3. Anthony Wayne, 6. Francis Marion. 

(Representatives should be chosen who, when made up, uniformed and wigged, will closely resemble 
the pictures of the generals they represent. In a city where revolutionary uniforms can be had they 
will enhance the attraction materially. Any school history has prints of accurate and well-known 
portraits of all these generals. After the tableau, if time permits, the representatives might 
march, one at a time, to the front of the stage. Some notable event in his life be referred to and 
the audience irvited to guess who he impersonates. ) 

(The tableau should be presented with the six generals grouped around an American flag of revolu- 
tionary times. ) 

332 



« 




i 1^ 





PHOTO El MORRISON, CHICAGO 



SONG OF THE FLOWER GIRL 



Program for Decoration Day Entertainment 



Music — By the Band One or More Selections 

Prayer — By the Chaplain of some regiment if one is present, otherwise by a Minister. 
'Original Oration 

(The theme should be National, deploring the necessity of war, but speaking of the fruits it has 
brought. Avoid bitterness toward the opposing section. The olive branch of peace rather than 
bitterness should characterize all such occasions, whether North or South. Speech should not be 
over lo or 15 minutes. ) 

Music — By the Band 

(I/Ct it be a medley, "John Brown's Body," •* Dixie," "Yankee Doodle," thus honoring 
the bravery of both sides and showing a generous spirit.) 

Declamation — " The American Flag'' (Prose, page 85) 

(To be spoken with deliberation and a manifestation of patriotic pride. If the speaker stand under 
the flag or hold the staff in his hand, 1 c will emphasize his patriotic remarks. If the speaker be 
capable of adding other remarks of a local nature it will enhance the interest. ) 

Song — In Chorus — ''My Country 'tis of Thee,'' or " Star Spangled Banner!' 

Recitation — ''A Brother's Tribute" (Poem, page 99) 

(Suitable for lady or gentleman.) 

Recitation AND Song — '' An Incident of the J^<2:r " (Poem, page 114) 

(Suited to either male or female. Quite an effective piece when well rendered.) 

Solo — Song with Chorus—'* Battle Hymn of the Republic "..... 

(Sung to tune of ** John Brown's Body," by some good singer, let the school 
or audience join in the chorus.) 

Recitation — ''After the Battle" {^o^m,^d.g^ 179) , 

(Suited to large boy or young man. The speaker should enter fully into the spirit of the 
piece, and let his actions and his voice interpret the emotions. ) 

Short Original Address 

(Speak of the propriety of placing flowers upon the graves of heroes who died for principle and 
patriotism. If soldiers of both sides lie in proximity the graves of both should be decorated, and 
the speaker should refer to the beauty of the spirit of forgiveness which scatters flowers over the 
grave of a fallen foe. The remarks close by dismissing the audience to the cemetery.) 

Decorating the Graves. 

(This should be done under the supervision of a committee previously appointed.) 



Other Selections: 
" The Soldier's Pardon " (Poem, page 76). 
" Save the Other Man " (Poem, page 219). 
" Sentence of Death on the High Seas" (Poem, page 217). 

(The Descriptive and Pathetic divisions of the index will suggest o/OiX&x appropriate pieces.) 

333 



Program for -ith of July Entertainment 



Music — By the Band • , o * 

■50NG — In Chorus — ''My Country 'Tis of Thee'' 

ilEADING THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE , 

(Closing with a roll-call of the signers. These maybe had from any U. S. History. The inter es\ j 
would be increased if some one in response to the calling of each name would announce the date I 
of his deuth or some notable fact of his history. ) 

Music — By the Band " Yankee Doodle " 

Original Oration — liulogy ^n the Heroes ot 1776 (10 or 15 minutes long) ...... 

Tableau 

(Representing Thomas Jeffersou, Benjamin Franklin, John Adams and Patrick Henry, dressed it.^ 
colonial fashion — knickerbockers and powdered wigs — grouped around a table on which is placed 
large bell made of paper or flowers, marked Liberty Bell, and a flag with thirteen stars. This 
tableau should immediately follow the oration and last but a few moments. ) 

Song — In Chorus, " The Star Spangled Banner^' or Music by Band c , 

Recitation — '' Rodney s Ride '' (Poem, page 119) 

(An anxious, animated style should be employed by the speaker, and the scenes vividly 
pict'^red. May be recited by lady or gentleman. ) 

Solo — Any patriotic song ; or, Quartette of Voices ..." Columbiay Gem of the Ocean' 

V^-KCiTATio-i^—'' The Battle of Blinker Hiir' {Vo^m, "p^gG ^2)) 

(Should be spoken by one with good descriptive powers capable of maintaining 
an interesting description for several minutes. ) 

Music — By the Band. 



OTHER SELECTIONS. 



.^Penns Monument" (Prose, page i o i )} ^^^^^^^^°^^ ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 



" Heroism of the Pilgrims 
'• The Indian '*..-• 



( " 



331 



\ ■) Suited to gentleman or large boy. Deliver 
4J ] in patriotic and plain oratorical style. 

~\ Suited to boy or man. Deliver in a plain, 
1 20 [■ simple, oratorical and sympathetiv: 
J manner. 



i 



Program for Parlor Entertainment 

Music — On Piano By a Daughter or near friend of the family 

A Pleasant Word of Welcome By Host or Hostess 

(After which the same person announces, in an impromptu manner irom a memorandum written on 
a card, " We will now be entertained by, etc.," giving the name of each contributor as they are 
called upon. ) 

Piano Duett By 

Reading — '* The Progj^ess of Humanity'' (VYosQ,-p3.ge gi') 

(Suitable reading for a gentleman of practical, reflective manner.) 
Music — Violin Solo By 

Recitation — " Little Mag's Victory'' By Miss or Mrs 

(A dramatic piece, suitable to amiss or lady, should be studied well and the moods and spirit 
of the piece fully comprehended by the speaker. ) 

Music — By Mr. and Miss or Mrs . Flute and Pianc 

Recitation — '' Sal. Parker^ s Ghost" {^o^va.'^d.^^ 142) 

(Suited to gentleman, but often recited by lady. Should be spoken in a swaggering manner as a 
hackman would talk, all the while manifesting a true honesty and warm big-heartedness.) 

Music — Song — Solo By 

Reading — " (S^z/^^w-^j: " (Poem, blank verse, page 1 34) 

(A charming descriptive selection, suitable for gentleman or lady. Should be recited with an easy, 
graceful, story-telling air, devoid of apparent effort at elocution, allowK g a trace of sympathetic 
emotion to control and modulate the voice. A beautifully sad piece when well rendered.) 

Music — Quartette of voices, accompanied or not by instruments. 

Recitation—" What the Little Girl Said" (Page 225) 

(Very funny when spoken by a 5-oung man who can mimic the female voice. 
Ladies also recite it with good effect.) 

Music \ . Banjo Club or Guitar and Banjo 

Drama and Tableau — '' Destiny of Empress Josephine" (Page 291) 

(For four ladies and one gentleman. See advice as to how it should be presented on page 291.) 

J@°"lf refreshments are served it may be done at this point, or the program divided, partaking of refresh- 
ments after the first half. Where a tea or dinner is given, the program in full should succeed the meal. 



OTPIER APPROPRIATE SELECTIONS 

May be substituted for any of the above or used to make up a second entertainment. 

} Suitable to lady or better to a bright child, who 
can enter the spirit of the piece and properly 
impersonate the character. 
1 Pathetic recitation. Should be well compre- 
hended, and the different ages of Hannah and 
lapse of time clearly brought out. 

,i ^j z) -J J n • y> /a a ^ ^\)Humorous. Should be recited with backwoods 

'' The Railroad Crossing . .( " " 245) | accent. 

'' The Inrst Client" ( " " 246) l ^"T.''''''' Sm^table to a gentleman clever at 

\ ^ i relating a good story. 

" The Movement Cure for Rheu- ] Very humorous. Should be told in a seiiously 

matism " rProse '* 1a^\ \ i"""^^ ^^^^ ^^^ speaker never laughing, while 

maiism (^rrose, 247; j ^-^c audience will roar. 

•' The Emancipation of Man " . ( - " 229)! Humorous Suited to one capable of imperson- 

^^ «.t,<.^c*t^cx,^ ly j.fj.iA,,!, . \^ ^-y^l ating a double character of man and woman. 

}This piece is verj'^ effective. When well acted 
affords ample opportunity for employing the 
aspirated and spectral voice. 

Dialogue — ;" Recipe for Potato ) 

Pudding" ( " " 295)p°"^^"^^^^^^^"^^^°"^S^°^^'^°'^^- 

^ Pathetic. The effect is heightened if speaker wear 
* 'Che Blind Poet' S Wife" . . ^ ( " ** 106) [- spectacles as the blind do. Let wife and chil- 

» -»«-*.u be introduced in tableau. 

335 



Program for Temperance Entertainment 



Music — By Band or Piano 

Opening Remarks = . 

(The speaker, in well-chosen words, should speak of the curse of intemperance and close by saying 
this occasion is for the double purpose of entertaining the company and impressing temperance 
lessons by the selections which shall be rendered, j 

Recitation — "'Tlie Aged Prisoner'' (Poem, page 196) 

(This pathetic story is drawn from the life of a man who, through drink, had been led into 
crime. Should be recited by a gentleman who can fully interpret it. ) 

Music — Solo or Quartette of Voices (any good Temperance song) 

Reading — ''The Judge s Temperam : Lecture'' (Vros&, ^digQ g-^) . 

(This piece will be more effective if the speaker be seated on a platform like a judge, and the three 
offenders (two men and one woman) stand before him in tableau, while he administers this 
sarcastic rebuke. The costume of a judge would also help the speaker. ) 

'Recitation AND Song — ''The Dying Boy " {Vdig^ 201) 

(Adapted to any good reciter. It teaches the double lesson of the curse of rum and the 
comforts of faith in Jesus under the most terrible circumstances. ) 

Music— Piano bolo or Piano and Violin 

■Reading — ''A Yankee 271 Love" (Prose, pa.ge 2S/) 

(Humorous. Must be spoken in the backwoods "swagger." Before calling this piece the chairman 
might announce U as a species of intemperance which effects all young people, but is harmless If 
kept within proper bounds. ) 

Recitation — "There Was Once a Toper" (Poem, page 280) 

(Humorous. Adapted to lady or gentleman.) 

Music — Quartette of Voices .'...., 

Reading — "^ ^r(2z/^ .^^j/ " (Prose, page 189) 

(Suited to a gentleman. A plain, interesting story. Teaches the lesson that heroic doing of 
the right and sticking to principle is the surest road to honor and distinction.) 

Recitation — "The Widozi/ 0'Sha?te's Rint" (Poem, pa.ge 2^8) 

(Humorous. Best adapted to lady. The success of this piece consists in speaking the Irish brogue 
properly and cleverly acting the various scenes. A complete forgetfulness of self is important 
in all impersonations.) 

Music — Vocal Duett 

Reading — "Good-Night, Papa" (Prose, p3.ge 206) 

(Pathetic selection. May be read by either lady or gentleman. The spirit of the piece should be 
well interpreted. It shows how deep sorrow — perhaps a sad providence — is often the only means 
of reclaiming one from the road to ruin. ) 

Recitation — "The Face on the Floor" (Poem, page 20) 

(.Jramatic and pathetic. Should be recited by a man who can, by elocutiom and actingj niliy 
interpret the piece. The effect is remarkable when well rendered. The lesson is a strong one. 
Sorrow cannot be drowned in liquor. ) 

Song by 'chs whole Company — " Where Is My Wandering Boy To-night f " 

The Descriptive and Pathetic Departments of this Book furnish other Appropriate Selections. "^I 

336 



DEBATERS : 



Program for Lyceum Entertainment 

Music — Band or Piano Selection 

Opening Remarks by the President or Chairman. 

Address — '^ Ancient and Modern Oratory'' (Page 117) 

(Suited to be delivered at the opening of a debate or oratorical contest. At the close the speaker 
may add such original remarks as especially fit the occasion. ) 

Solo — Song By 

Debate — Question, ^^ Resolved, etc!' ^ 

^ Affirmative. 

1st Speaker 

2d Speaker • • . . 

Negative. 

1st Speaker 

2d Speaker 

Music by the Band while judges retire to make up their decision. 
Announcement of Decision and Awarding of Honors. 

(In case the debate is not a feature of the entertainment, or in event of its being short, as many 
of the following selections, as time permits, may be introduced.) 

Recitation — ''The Engine Drivers Story" (Poem, page 109). 

(This Descripti\ p and Dramatic selection is suited to one capable of acting, 
and with strong, well modulated voice. ) 

Flute Solo — Selection .By 

Reading — ''Mary, Queen of Scotts" (Poem, page 79) «... 

(Best suited to a lady with good descriptive and elocutionary powers.) 

Song — By Quartette .^ 

Recitation — " The Movemejtt Cure for Rheumatism" {Vvosq, -i^dige 24.y) 

(This piece is very humorous when read or recited by a droll speaker. It should be told as if 
reciter were not aware he was saying anything funny. 

Music by Band. 

Expression of Thanks to Audience. Dismissed. 



OTHER SELECTIONS } 

"The Burning Ship." . . (Poem, page 82 

I *' Bernardo del Carpioy . . ( " "138 

"Nell." { " " 130 



May be substituted for the above or used 
for second entertainment : 

\ \ Descriptive and Dramatic, suited to Jady with talent 
^ J for acting. 



\ ') Suitable for gentleman capable of showing the emotions 
/ J of gladness, surprise, grief and disappointment. 



'Kit Carson's Ride." . . ( 



« (( 



54 



"Mat. F. Ward's Trial for 

Murder." (Prose, " 63, 

"Searching for the Slain." i^oaxv, " 50 

"Kate Maloney." . . . { " " 64. 

j "Daniel Periton' s Ride!' . ( " "102 
22 



Suited to lady of dramatic and emotionall talent. 

When fully comprehended, well interpreted and 

acted, is very effective. 

"I Vivid description. Should be recited by a gentleman 

\ ( who can impersonate the Western frontiersman and 

I I speak the provincial Western "swagger, " at same 

) time manifest a natural big-heartedness. 

}To be spoken with earnestness, deliberation, and 
manifestation of suppressed or reserve force of con- 
viction for the right. 
JVery Dramatic and Pathetic. Should be recited by a 
lady of matronly appearance, with good talent for 
acting. 
\ Descriptive and Dramatic. Lady should recite it. No 
) [■ one should attempt this piece who cannot speak with 

j decided Irish accent. 
\ 1 Descriptive. Suited to any good reciter, -ladj^ ox 

oii7 



gentleman. 



Program for Christmas Entertainment 

Music — Piano or Band ^ 

Music — Song by Quartette (or Audience, if in Church) 

(IvCt the song be appropriate to the place and occasion.) 

Recitation — '' Little Rockefs Christmas'' (Vo&oci,^2igQ 12 <)) e . . * 

(Suited to any good reciter. Teaches a good lesson of charity and self-sacrifice.) 

Reading— "//> Worried About It'' (Poem, page 256) ... 

(Humorous. To be spoken in a droll manner. Suited to a man who can keep his 
face straight while others laugh. ) 

Music — Solo (By any choice singer, with piano or guitar accompaniment) « 

Dialogue and Tableau — ''Courti7tg- zinder Difficulties" (Page 307) , 

(Arranged for two gentlemen and one lady. Very humorous when well rendered.) 

Recitation — " Over the Crossi7i' " (Poem, page 24) , , , 

(Descriptive and pathetic. Suited to one who can give proper pronunciation to the 

street gamin's talk.) 

Music — Piano or Organ Recital ^ , 

Reading — '' Mr. Caudle and His Second Wife" (Vvos&,ip2igQ 2^4) « 

(Humorous. Adapted to a middle-aged gentleman. To be recited in full sympathy 
with the various occasions and moods of Mr. Caudle.) 

Recitation — " iV<?/ C^/Z/y " (Poem, page 269) . , 

(To be recited by one who can speak well the Negro dialect and act the characteristic darkey. Spme 
acquaintance with the Southern Negro is necessary to a correct interpretation of this piece. ) 

Music — Song by Quartette — Accompanied, or not, by instruments , 

K Ta]^tomime—'' Christmas Eve" (Page 312) .. , 

(Arranged for several characters. No words are spoken, but the piece should be rehearsed 
several times and the acting be thoroughly intelligible to the audience.) 

RECtrATiON — "^ New Year's Deed " (Poem, page 104) , 

( A pathetic, descriptive selection. Teaching a lesson of charity to the poor. Effective when 
well rendered. Suited to male or female. ) 

Music-o-By Band ." , 

Dismissed. 



OTHEP^ SELECTIONS. 



"Four Celebrated Characters" . (Page 314) } 



A beautiful Dialogue and Tableau 
for children 



^'The Woman Next Door" 
** Saved by a Ghost'"" . . 
*^In the Bottom Drawer" 
''A Last Look " .... 
''The Glacier Bed" . . . 



(Page 259) '^ The Bicycle a^idthe Pup 

( " 237) '' On the Other Train" . 

( " 21.^) . *'The Singer's Climax" . 

( " 197) ''Death of Little Nell" . 

( ** 181) "Two Loves nnd a Life " 
338 



(Page 235) 
( " 223) 
( " 205) 
( '' 194) 
( " 92) 



MANUAL 



OF 

PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE, 

AS AUTHORIZED AND TAUGHT 

BY CUSHINQ 

AND OTHER STANDARD AUTHORITIES. 

Note. — Charles Sumner declared Luther S. Gushing to be '' The most authoritative ex- 
pounder of American Parliamentary Law." The justice of Mr. Sumner's judgment has been 
thoroughly tested and approved. The remarkable accuracy, extended research, and great ability of 
the author have been everywhere acknowledged; and by common consent, Cushing's Manual has 
become the authoritative guide in nearly all deliberative assemblies and Legislative bodies through- 
out the United States. 

Mr. Cushing's complete work, entitled ''The Law and Practice of Legislative Assemblies,*' 
is a large octavo volume of nearly 1 200 pages, and is universally admitted te be the most elaborate, 
complete, and reliable presentation of Parliamentary Law ever published. 

The present manual contains in a compact form all the essential points of this large work, 
simplified, revised, and adapted for quick and ready reference by a system of paragraphing and 
indexing, enabling the reader to refer immediately to the point desired. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PARAGRAPH 

INTRODUCTION i to 12 

CHAPTER I.— Certain Premminary Matters ... 13 to 21 

Sect. I. Quorum 13 to 15 

Sect. II. Rules and Orders 16 to 18 

Sect. III. Time of Meeting 19 

SiBCT. IV. Principle of Decision 20, 21 

CHAPTER II.— Officers 22 to 31 

Sect. I. The Presiding Officer 23 to 26 

Sect. II. The Recording Officer 27 to 31 

CHAPTER III.— The Rights and Duties of Members 32 to 35 

CHAPTER IV.— The Introduction of Business ... 36 to 49 

CHAPTER v.— Motions in General 50 to 52 

CHAPTER V I.— Motions TO Suppress 53 to 57 

Sect. I. Previous Question 53 to 56 

Sect. II. Indefinite Postponement 57 

CHAPTER VII.— Motions to Postpone 58 to 61 

CHAPTER VIII.— Motions to Commit 62 to 66 

CHAPTER IX.— Motions to Amend 67 to 107 

Division of a Question 68 to 71 

Filling Blanks 72, 73 

Addition— Separation — Transposition . 74 to 76 
Withdrawal, Modification, etc., by the 

Mover 78, 79 

General Rules Relating to Amendments 80 to 85 

Amendments, by striking out 86 to 91 

Amendments, by inserting 92 to 96 

Amendments, by striking out and in- 
serting 97 to 102 

Amendments, changing the nature of a 

question 103 to 107 



Sect. 


I. 


Sect. 


II. 


Sect. 


III. 


Sect. 


IV. 


Sect. 


V. 


Sect. 


VI. 


Sect. 


VII. 


Sect. 


VIII 


Sect. 


IX 



paragraph 
CHAPTER X. — The Order and Succession of Busi- 
ness 108 to 148 

Skc. I Privileged Questions no to 123 

Adjournment m to 114 

Questions 0/ Privilege 115 

Orders 0/ the Day 11610123 

Sect. II. Incidental Questions 124 to 135 

Questions of Order 125 to 128 

Reading of Papers 12910134 

Suspension of a Rule 135 

Shci. III. Subsidiary Questions 136 to 148 

Lie on the Table 138 

Previous Question 139, 140 

Postponement 141 to 143 

Commitvzent 144, 145 

Atnendment 146 to 14S 

CHAPTER XI.— The Order of Proceeding 149 to 157 

CHAPTER XII.— Order in Debate 158 to 184 

Sect. I. As to the Manner of Speaking .... 159 to 163 

Sect. II. As to the Matter in Speaking . . . . 164 to 168 

Sect. Ill, As to Times of Speaking 169 to 172 

Sect. IV. As to Stopping Debate 173 to 175 

Sect. V. As to Decorum in Debate 176 to 179 

Sect. VI. As to Disorderly Words 18010184 

CHAPTER XIII.— The Question 185 to 107 

CHAPTER XIV.— Reconsideration 198 to 203 

CHAPTER XV.— Committees 204 to 248 

Sect. I. Their Nature and Functions 204 to 206 

Sect, II. Their Appointment 207 to 215 

Sect. III. Their Organization, etc 216 to 228 

Sect. IV. Their Report 229 to 234 

Sect. V. Committee of rhe Whole 235 to 248 

339 



340 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



INTRODUCTION. 

1. For whatever purpose a deliberative assem- 
bly or society of any kind be called together, it 
is necessary, in the first place, that it be properlj 
constituted and organized; and, secondly, that 
it should conduct all proceedings according to 
certain rules, and agreeably to certain forms, 
which experience has shown to be the best 
adapted to the purpose. 

2. Some deliberative assemblies, such as muni- 
cipal and other corporations, are usually consti- 
tuted by virtue of certain legal provisions; while 
others, such as conventions, political meetings, 
societies, etc., constitute and organize themselves 
upon their assembling together for the purpose of 
some definite object. 

3. The most usual mode of organizing a de- 
liberative assembly is the following : The members 
being assembled together, in the place, and at 
the time, appointed for their meeting, one of 
them, addressing himself to the others, requests 
them to come to order ; the members thereupon 
seating themselves, and giving their attention to 
him, he suggests to the members to nominate some 
person to act as chairman of the meeting; a 
name or names being thereupon mentioned, he 
declares that such a person (whose name was first 
heard by him) is nominated for chairman, and 
puts a question that the person so named be re- 
quested to take the chair. When a chairman is 
elected, he takes the chair, and proceeds in the 
same manner to complete the organization of the 
assembly, by the choice of a secretary and such 
other officers, if any, as may be deemed neces- 
sary. 

4. The presiding officer is usually denominated 
the president, and the recording officer the secre- 
tary ; though sometimes these officers are desig- 
nated respectively as the chair7nan and clerk. It 
is not unusual, besides a president, to have one 
or more vice-presidents, who take the chair occa- 
sionally, in the absence of the president from the 
assembly, or when he withdraws from the chair 
to take part in the proceedings as a member, but 
who at other times, though occupying seats with 
the president, act merely as members. It is fre- 
quently the case, also, that several persons are 



appointed secretaries, in which case the first 
named is considered as the principal officer. The 
presiding officer does not usually engage in the 
debate, and votes only when the assembly is 
equally divided. 

5. In all deliberative assemblies, the members 
of which are chosen or appointed to represent 
others, it is necessary, before proceeding to busi- 
ness, to ascertain who are duly elected and re- 
turned as members. The proper time for this 
investigation is after the temporary and before 
the permanent organization, or when the assem- 
bly is permanently organized, in the first instance, 
before it proceeds to the transaction of any other 
business ; and the most convenient mode of con- 
ducting it is by the appointment of a committee 
to receive and report upon the credentials of the 
members. 

6. When a question arises involving the right 
of a member to his seat, such member is entitled 
to be heard on the question, and he is then to 
withdraw from the assembly until it is decided; 
but if, by the indulgence of the assembly, he 
remains in his place during the discussion, he 
ought neither to take any further part in it, nor 
to vote when the question is proposed. 

7. The place where an assembly is held being 
in its possession, and rightfully appropriated to 
its use, no person is entitled to be present therein 
but by the consent of the assembly. 

8. Every deliberative assembly is perfectly 
competent to adopt, aside from general parliamen- 
tary rules, certain special rules for the regulation 
of its proceedings. ' Where this is the case, these 
latter supersede the ordinary parliamentary rules 
in reference to all points to which they relate, 
leaving what may be called the common parlia- 
mentary law in full force in all other respects. 

9. The rules of parliamentary proceedings in 
this country are derived from, and essentially the 
same with, those of the British Parliament; 
though, in order to adapt these rules to the cir- 
cumstances and wants of our legislative assem- 
blies, they have in some few respects been 
changed, in others differently applied, and in 
others, again, extended beyond their original 
intention. To these rules, < nrh legislative assem- 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



341 



biy is accustomed to add a code of its own. The 
result is, that a system of parliamentary rules has 
been established in each State, different in some 
particulars from those of every other State, but 
yet, founded in and embracing all the essential 
rules of the common parliamentary law. 

10. The judgment, opinion, sense, or will of 
'a deliberative assembly, is expressed, according 

to the nature of the subject, either by a resolu- 
tion, order, or vote. When it commands, it is 
by an order ; but facts, principles, its own opin- 
ions or purposes, are most properly expressed in 
the form of a resolution ; the term vote may be 
applied to the result of every question decided 
by the assembly. In whatever form, however, a 
question is proposed, or by whatever name it 
may be called, the mode of proceeding is the same. 

11. The judgment or will of any number of 
persons considered as an aggregate body is that 
which is evidenced by the consent or agreement 
of the greater number of them j and the only 
mode by which this can be ascertained, in refer- 
ence to any particular subject, is for some one of 
them to begin by submitting to the others a 
proposition expressed in such a form of words 
that, if assented to by the requisite number, it 
will purport to express the judgment or will of the 
assembly. 

12. When a proposition is made, if it be not 
agreed to or rejected at once, the assembly may 
be unwilling to consider and act upon it at all \ 
or it may wish to postpone the consideration of 
the subject to a future time ; or it may be willing 
to adopt the proposition with certain modifica- 
tions ; or, lastly, approving the subject-matter, but 
finding it presented in so crude, imperfect, or 
objectionable a form that it cannot, in that state, 
be considered at all, the assembly may desire to 
have the proposition further examined and di- 
gested before being presented. In order to 
enable the assembly to take whichever of the 
courses above indicated it may think proper, and 
then to dispose of every proposition in a suitable 
manner, certain motions or forms of question 
have been invented, which are perfectly adapted 
for the purpose, and are in common use in all 
deliberative assemblies. 



CHAPTER I. 
Preliminary Matters. 

Section I. Quorum. 

13. In all councils, and other collective bodies 
of the same kind, it is necessary that a certain 
number, called a quorum, of the members should 
meet and be present, in order to the transaction 
of business. 

14. The number necessary to constitute %«. 
quorum of any assembly may be fixed by law, 
as is the case with most of our legislative assem- 
blies; or by usage, as in the English House of 
Commons ; or it may be fixed by the assembly 
itself: but if no rule is established on the sub- 
ject, in any of these ways, a majority of the mem- 
bers composing the assembly is the requisite 
number. 

15. No business can regularly be entered upon 
or transacted without a quorum is present ; and 
if at any time, in the course of the proceedings, 
notice is taken that a quorum is not present, the 
assembly must be immediately adjourned. 

Sect. II. Rules and Orders. 

16. Every deliberative assembly is subject to 
general rules of proceeding. It may also provide 
for itself such special rules as it may find neces- 
sary. 

17. When a code of rules is adopted before- 
hand, it is usual also to provide therein as to the 
mode in which they may be amended, repealed, 
or dispensed with. Where there is no provision, 
it will be competent for the assembly to act at 
any time, and in the usual manner, upon ques- 
tions of amendment or repeal ; but in reference 
to dispensing with a rule or suspending it, in a 
particular case, if there is no express provision on 
the subject, it seems that it can only be done by 
general consent. (General consent usually means 
unanimous favor.) 

18. When any of the rules, relative to the 
manner of proceeding, is disregarded or infringed, 
every member has the right to require that the 
presiding officer, or any other whose duty it is, 
shall carry such rule into execution ; and in that 
case the rule must be enforced at once, without 
debate or delay. It is then too late to alter, re- 



342 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



peal, or suspend the rule: so long as any one 
member insists upon its execution, it must be en- 
forced. 

Sect. III. Time of Meeting. 

19. Every assembly which is not likely to 
finish its business at one sitting should come to 
some order or resolution beforehand, as to the 
time of re-assembling after an adjournment. Do 
not wait to arrange this in connection with the 
motion to adjourn. 

Sect. IV. Principle of Decision. 

20. The principle upon which the decisions 
of all aggregate bodies, such as councils, corpo- 
rations, and deliberative assemblies, are made, 
is that of the majority of votes, or suffrages ; and 
this rule holds not only in reference to questions 
and subjects which admit only of an affirmative 
on one side and a negative on the other, but also 
in reference to elections in which more than two 
persons may receive the suffrages. 

21. But this rule may be controlled by a 
special rule in reference to some particular sub- 
ject or question, by which any less number than 
a majority may be admitted, or any greater num- 
ber required, to express the will of the assembly. 
Thus it is frequently provided, in legislative 
assemblies, that one-third or one-fourth only of 
the members shall be sufficient to require the 
taking of a question by yeas and nays ; and, on 
the other hand, that no alteration shall take place 
in any of the rules and orders, without the consent 
of at least two-thirds, or even a larger number. 

CHAPTER II. 
Officers. 

22. The usual and necessary officers of a de- 
liberative assembly are those already mentioned, 
namely, a presiding and a recording officer ; both 
of whom are elected or appointed by the assem- 
bly itself, and removable at its pleasure. These 
officers are always to be elected by absolute 
majorities, even in those States in which elec- 
tions are usually effected by a plurality. 

Section I. The Presiding Officer. 

23. The principal duties of this officer are the 
following : — 



To open the sitting at the time to which the 
assembly is adjourned, by taking the chair, and 
calling the members to order ; 

To announce the business before the assembly, 
in the order in which it is to be acted upon ; 

To receive and submit, in the proper manner, 
all motions and propositions presented by the 
members ; 

To put to vote all questions which are regu- 
larly moved, or necessarily arise in the course of 
the proceedings, and to announce the result ; 

To restrain the members, when engaged in 
debate, within the rules of order ; 

To enforce on all occasions the observance of 
order and decorum among the members ; 

To receive all messages and other communica- 
tions, and announce them to the assembly ; 

To authenticate, by his signature, when neces- 
sary, all the acts^ orders, and proceedings of the 
assembly ; 

To inform the assembly, when necessary or 
when referred to for the purpose, in a point of 
order or practice ; 

To name the members (when directed to do so 
in a particular case, or when it is made a part of 
his general duty by a rule) who are to serve on 
committees ; and, in general, 

To represent and stand for the assembly, de- 
claring its will, and in all things obeying im- 
plicity its commands. 

24. If the assembly is organized by the choice 
of a president and vice-presidents, it is the duty 
of one of the latter to take the chair in case of 
the absence of the president from the assembly, 
or of his withdrawing from the chair for the pur- 
pose of participating in the proceedings. 

25. Where but one presiding officer is ap- 
pointed in the first instance, his place can only 
be supplied, in case of his absence, by the ap- 
pointment of a president or chairman /;-<? tem- 
pore ; and in the choice of this officer, who ought 
to be elected before any other business is done, 
it is the duty of the secretary to conduct the pro» 
ceedings. 

26. The presiding officer may read sitting, 
but should rise to state a motion, or put a que* 
tion to the assembly. 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



343 



Sect. II. Recording Officer. 
{Secretary or Clerk.') 

27. The principal duties of this officer consist 
in taking notes of all the proceedings, and in 
making true entries in his journal of all '' the 
things done and passed ' * in the assembly ; but he 
is not, in general, required to take minutes of 
"particular men's speeches/' or to make entries 
of things merely proposed or moved without 
coming to a vote. He is to enter what is done 
and passed, but not what is said or moved. This 
is the rule in legislative assemblies. In others, 
though the spirit of the rule ought to be ob- 
served, it is generally expected of the secretary 
that his record shall be both a journal and in 
some sort a report of the proceedings. 

28. It is also the duty of the secretary to read 
all papers, etc., which may be ordered to be read ; 
to call the roll of the assembly, and take note of 
those who are absent, when a call is ordered ; to 
call the roll, and note the answers of the mem- 
bers, when a question is taken by yeas and nays ; 
to notify committees of their appointment and of 
the business referred to them, and to authenti- 
cate by his signature (sometimes alone and some- 
times in conjunction with the president) all the 
acts, orders, and proceedings of the assembly. 

29. The clerk is also charged with the custody 
of all the papers and documents of every descrip- 
tion, belonging to the assembly, as well as the 
journal of its proceedings, and is to let none of 
them be taken from the table by any member or 
other person, without the leave or order of the 
assembly. 

30. When but a single secretary or clerk is 
appointed, his place can only be supplied, dur- 
ing his absence, by the appointment of some one 
to act pro tempore. When several persons are 
appointed, this inconvenience is not likely to 
occur. 

31. The clerk should stand while reading, or 
calling the assembly. 

CHAPTER ni. , 
Rights and Duties of tlie Members. 

32. Every member, however humble he may 
be, has the same right with every other, to sub- 



mit his propositions to the assembly, to explain 
and recommend them in discussion, and to have 
them patiently examined and deliberately decided 
upon by the assembly; and, on the other hand, 
it is the duty of every one so to conduct himself, 
both in debate and in his general deportment in 
the assembly, as not to obstruct any other mem- 
ber in the enjoyment of his equal rights. It may 
be stated generally, that no member is to disturb 
another or the assembly itself by hissing, cough- 
ing, or spitting; by speaking or whispering to 
other members ; by standing up to the interrup- 
tion of others; by passing between the presiding 
officer and a member speaking ; going across the 
assembly-room, or walking up and down in it; 
taking books or papers from the table, or writing 
there. Assaults by one member upon another, 
threats, challenges, affrays, etc , are also high 
breaches of decorum. It is also a breach of de- 
corum for a member to come into the assembly- 
room with his head covered 

33. In all instances of irregular and disorderly 
deportment, it is competent for every member, 
and is the special duty of the presiding officer, to 
comxplain to the assembly, or to take notice of 
the offence and call the attention of the assembly 
to it. The member who is thus charged with an 
offence against the assembly is entitled to be 
heard in his place in exculpation, and is then to 
withdraw. Being withdrawn, the assembly pro- 
ceeds to consider of the degree and amount of 
punishment to be inflicted. 

34. No member ought to be present in the 
assembly when any matter or business concern- 
ing himself is debating, and the assembly may 
compel him to withdraw, if he do not offer to 
do so of his own accord. If present by the 
indulgence of the assembly, he should not vote. 
If, notwithstanding, a member should remain 
in the assembly and vote, his vote may, and 
ought to be, disallowed. A man should not sit 
and act as a judge in his own case. 

35. The only punishments which can be in- 
flicted upon its members by a deliberative assem- 
bly of the kind now under consideration, consist 
of reprimanding, exclusion from the assembly, a 
prohibition to speak or vote for a specified time, 



"-14 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND 'PRACTICE 



/nd expulsion; to which are to be added such 
aiher forms of punishment — as by apology, beg- 
ging pardon, etc., as the assembly may see fit to 
impose, and to require the offender to submit to 
on pain of expulsion. 

CHAPTER IV. 
The Introduction of Business. 

36. The proceedings of a deliberative assem- 
bly, in reference to any particular subject, are 
ordinarily set Ln motion, in the first instance, by 
some one of the members either presenting a 
communication from persons not members, or 
himself submitting a proposition to the assembly. 

37. Propositions made by members are drawn 
up and introduced, by motion, in the form 
which they are intended by the mover to bear, 
as orden, resolutions, or votes, if they should be 
adopte'd by the assembly. 

38. When a member has occasion to make 
any communication, motion, or statement what- 
ever to the assembly, he must, in the first place, 
"obtain the floor" for the purpose he has in 
view. In order to do this he must rise in his 
place and, standing uncovered, address himself 
to the presiding officer by his title; the latter, 
on hearing himself thus addressed, calls to the 
member by his name; and the member may 
then, but not before, proceed with his business. 

39. If two or more members rise and address 
themselves to the presiding officer at the same 
time, or nearly so, he should give the floor to the 
member whose voice he first heard. If his de- 
cision should not be satisfactory, any member 
may call it in question, saying that, in his opinion, 
such a member (not the one named) was first up; 
and have the sense of the assembly taken thereon, 
as to which of the members should be heard. In 
this case, the question should be first taken upon 
the name of the member announced by the pre- 
siding officer; and, if this question should be 
decided in the negative, then upon the name of 
the member for whom the floor was claimed in 
opposition to him. 

40 A petition, in order to be received, should 
be subscribed by the petitioner himself, with his 
own hand, either by name or mark, except in 



case of inability from sickness, or because the 
petitioner is attending in person ; and should be 
presented or offered, not by the petitioner him- 
self, but by some member to whom it is intrusted 
for that purpose. 

41. The member who presents a petition 
should previously have informed himself of its 
contents, so as to be able to state the substance ; 
of it on offering it to the assembly, to answer all 
questions, and defend it. 

42. Being thus prepared, the member rises in 
his place, with the petition in his hand, and 
informs the assembly that he has a certain peti- 
tion, stating the substance of it, which he there- 
upon presents or offers to the assembly, and at 
the same time moves (which, however, may be 
done by any other member) that it be received ; 
this motion being seconded, the question is put, 
whether the assembly will receive the petition 
or not. 

43. If the question of reception is determined 
in the affirmative, the petition is brought up to 
the table by the member presenting it, and is 
there read, as of course by the clerk. It is then 
regularly before the assembly, to be dealt with as 
it thinks proper ; the usual course being either to 
proceed to consider the subject of it iminediately, 
or to assign some future time for its considera- 
tion, or to order it to lie on the table for the 
examination and consideration of the members 
individually. 

44. Whenever a member introduces a propo- 
sition of his own, for the consideration of the 
assembly, he puts it into the form he desires it 
should have, and then moves that it be adopted 
as the resolution, order, or vote of the assembly. 
If this proposition so far meets the approbation 
of other members that one of them rises in his 
place and seconds it, it may then be put to the 
question ; and the result, whether affirmative or 
negative, becomes the judgment of the assembl}^. 

45. A motion must be submitted in writing; 
otherwise the presiding officer will be justified in 
refusing to receive it ; he may do so, however, if 
he pleases, and is willing to take the trouble him- 
self to reduce it to writing. This rule extends 
only to principal motions, which when adopted 



L 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



345 



fet;;Con.e the act, and express the sense, of the 
assembly; but not to subsidiary or incidental 
motions,^ which merely enable the assembly to 
dispose of the former in the manner it desires, 
and which are always in the same form. In the 
case of a motion to amend, which is a subsidiary 

t motion, the rule admits of an exception, so far 
as regards the insertion of additional words, 
which, as well as the principal motion, must be 
in writing. 

46. A motion must also be seconded, that is, 
approved by some one member, at least, express- 
ing his approval by rising, and saying that he 
seconds the motion ; and if a motion be not 
seconded, no notice whatever is to be taken of it 
by the presiding officer, though in practice very 
many motions, particularly those which occur in 
the ordinary routine of business, are admitted 
without being seconded. This rule applies as 
well to subsidiary as principal motions. The 
seconding of a motion seems to be required, 
on the ground that the time of the assembly 
ought not to be taken up by a question which, 
for anything that appears, has no one in its favor 
but the mover. There are some apparent excep- 
tions to this rule, which will be stated hereafter, 
in those cases in which one member alone has 
ihe right of instituting or giving direction to a 
particular proceeding; and an actual exception 
is sometimes made by a special rule, requiring 
certain motions to be seconded by more than one 
member. An exception to the general rule requir- 
ing motions to be seconded occurs when it is 
proposed to proceed with, or to execute, or to 
enforce, an order of the assembly; as, for ex- 
ample, when it is moved to proceed with an order 
of the day, or when a member suggests or calls 
for the enforcement of some order relating to the 
observance of decorum, or the regularity of pro- 
ceeding. Thus, in the English House of Com- 
^ mons, a single member may require the enforce- 
' ment of the standing order for the exclusion of 
strangers; and so, when the second or other 
reading of a bill is made the order for a particu- 

* Such as, to adjourn, lie on the table, for the previous 
question, for postponement, commitment, etc. 



lar day, a motion on that day to read the bill 
according to the order need not be seconded. 

47. When a motion has been made and sec- 
onded, it is then to be stated by the presiding 
officer to the assembly, and thus becomes a ques- 
tion for its decision ; and, until so stated, it is 
not in order for any other motion to be made, or 
for any member to speak to it. When moved, 
seconded, and stated from the chair, a motion is 
in the possession of the assembly, and cannot be 
withdrawn by the mover, but by special leave of 
the assembly, which must be obtained by a 
motion made and seconded as in other cases, and 
requires a unanimous vote of the assembly, unless 
some special rule of the assembly provides to the 
contrary ; but before a motion has been stated by 
the chair the mover may modify it, or withdraw 
it altogether, at his pleasure. As a matter of 
courtesy, he generally asks the consent of his 
second on doing so. 

48. When a motion is regularly before the 
assembly, it is the duty of the presiding officer 
to state it, if it be not in writing, or to cause it 
to be read if it be, as often as any member 
desires to have it stated or read for his informa- 
tion 

49. When a motion or proposition is regu- 
larly before the assembly, no other motion can 
be received, unless it be one which is previous, in 
its nature, to the question under consideration, 
and consequently entitled to take its place for the 
time being, and be first decided. 

CHAPTER V. 
Motions in General. 

50. When a proposition is made to a delib- 
erative assembly, for its adoption, the assembly 
may be willing to come to a decision upon it at 
once; and, when this is the case, nothing more 
can be necessary than to take the votes of the 
members, and ascertain the result. But the 
assembly may prefer some other course of pro- 
ceeding to an immediate decision of the question 
in the form in which it is presented. Certain 
forms of question have from time to time beer, 
invented, and are now m general use, for that 
purpose. These forms of question may properly 



346 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



be called subsidiary, in order to distinguish them 
from the principal motion or question to which 
they relate. 

51. The different states of mind in which a 
proposition may be received by a deliberative 
assembly, and the corresponding forms of pro- 
ceeding, or subsidiary motions to which they give 
rise, in order to ascertain the sense of the assem- 
bly, are the following : — 

First, The assembly may look upon the propo- 
sition as useless or inexpedient, and may therefore 
desire to suppress it either for a time or alto- 
gether. The subsidiary motions for this purpose are 
the previous question and indefinite postponement* 

Second, The assembly may be willing to enter- 
tain and consider a proposition, but not at the 
time when it is made. The usual motions, 
under such circumstances, are postponement to 
some future day or time, and to lie on the table. 

Third. The subject-matter of a proposition 
may be regarded with favor, but the form in 
which it is introduced may be defective. In this 
case it is most proper to refer the proposition to 
a committee. 

Fourth. The proposition may be acceptable, 
but certain alterations and amendments may be 
thought proper. The motion adapted to this 
case is to amend. 

52. It is not to be supposed that the subsi- 
diary motions above specified are the only ones 
that have at any time been adopted or used ; but 
they are the forms in most common use, and are 
entirely sufficient for all practical purposes. 

CHAPTER VI. 
Motions to Suppress. 

53. When a proposition is moved which it is 
supposed may be regarded by the assembly as 
useless or inexpedient, and which it may there- 
fore be desirous to get rid of, such proposition 
may be suppressed for a time by means of the 
previous question, or altogether by a motion for 
indefinite postponement. 

Section I. Previous Question. 

54. The original use of the previous question 
was the suppression of a main question, but in 



this country it has been perverted to a wholly 
different use, namely, the suppression of debate. 
When first made use of, in the House of Com- 
mons, two centuries ago, the form of the motion 
was. Shall the main question be put? and the 
effect of a decision of it in the negative was to 
suppress the main question for the whole session. 
The form of it was afterwards changed to that 
which it has at present, namely. Shall the main 
question be now put? and the effect of a negative 
decision of it now is to suppress the main question 
for the residue of the day only. 

55. But the previous question may be decided 
in the affirmative, as well as the negative ; that is, 
that the main question shall now be put: in 
which case, that question is to be put immedi- 
ately, without any further debate, and in the 
form in which it then exists. This operation of 
the previous question, when decided affirmatively, 
has led to the use of it for the purpose of sup- 
pressing debate on a principal question, and com- 
ing to a vote upon it immediately ; and this is 
ordinarily the only object of the previous ques- 

\ tion, as made use of in the legislative assemblies 
of the United States. 

56. In England the previous question is used 
only for suppressing a main question; the object 
of the mover is \o obtain a decision of it in the 
negative; and the effect of such a decision is, 
practically and by parliamentary usage, to dispose 
of the subject altogether. In this country the 
previous question is used chiefly for suppressing 
debate on a main question; the object of the 
mover is to obtain a decision of it in the affirm- 
ative ; and the effect of a decision the other way 
is, in general, merely to suspend the^aking of 
the question for that day. The operation of an 
affirmative decision is the same in both countries ; 
namely, the putting of the main question imme- 
diately, and without further debate, delay, or 
consideration. 

Sect. II. Indefinite Postponement. 

57. In order to suppress a question altogether, 
without coming to a direct vote upon it, in such 
a manner that it cannot be renewed, the proper 
motion is for indefinite postponement; that is, a 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



347 



postponement or adjournment of the question, 
without fixing any day for resuming it. The 
effect of this motion, if decided in the affirmative, 
is to quash the proposition entirely ; as an indefi- 
nite adjournment is equivalent to a dissolution, 
or the continuance of a suit without day is a dis- 
continuance of it. A negative decision has no 
:tTect whatever. 

CHAPTER VII. 
Motions to Postpone. 

58. If the assembly is willing to entertain 
md consider a question, but not at the time 

'when it is moved, the proper course is either to 
postpone the subject to another day, or to order 
it to lie on the table. 

59. When the members individually want 
more information than they possess at the time 
a question is moved, or desire further time for 
reflection and examination, the proper motion is, 
to postpone the subject to such future day as will 
answer the views of the assembly. 

60. If the assembly has something else be- 
fore it, which claims its present attention, and 
is therefore desirous to postpone a particular 
proposition until that subject is disposed of, such 
postponement may be effected by means of a 
motion that the matter in question lie on the 
table until the other topic or subject is disposed of. 
The proper motion for proceeding with a matter 
that has been ordered to lie on the table is, 
that the assembly do now proceed to consider 
that matter or subject, or that the subject be 
taken up for consideration. 

61. A motion to lay on the table is some- 
times made use of for the final disposition of a 
subject ; and it always has that effect, when no 
motion is afterwards made to take it up. 

CHAPTER VIII. 
Motions to Commit. 

62. When the subject-matter of a proposition 
is regarded with favor ; but revision or consider- 
ation is necessary that ca,nnot conveniently be 
given to it in the assembly itself, the course of 
proceeding then is, to refer the subject to a com- 
mittee. 



63. If there is a standing committee of the 
assembly, whose functions embrace the subject 
in question, the motion should be to refer it to 
that committee ; if there is no such committee, 
then the motion should be to refer to a select 
committee. 

64. When a subject is referred or recom- i 
mitted, the committee may be instructed or - 
ordered by the assembly, as to any part or the.'' 
whole of the duties assigned them ; or the sub > 
ject may be left with them without instructions. 
The committee can only consider the matter 
referred to it ; and consequently is not at liberty, 
like the assembly itself, to change the subject 
under consideration by means of an amendment. 
This rule is equally applicable to committees of 
the whole 

65. A part only of a subject may be com- 
mitted, without the residue ; or different parts 
may be committed to different committees. 

66. A commitment with instructions is some- 
times made use of, as a convenient mode of pro- 
curing further information, and, at the same time, 
of postponing the consideration of a subject to a 
future though uncertain day. 

CHAPTER IX. 
Motions to Amend. 

67. When the assembly is satisfied with the 
subject-matter of a proposition, but desires to 
make some addition to it, or change in its form, 
the course of proceeding then is to make its 
details satisfactory by means of amendments 
having the same general purpose in view. The 
amendment will be first considered when taking 
the vote. 

Section I. Division of a Question. — 

68. When a proposition or motion is compli-j 
cated, that is, composed of two or more parts 
which are so far independent of each other as to 
be susceptible of division into several questions, 
and it is supposed that the assembly may approve 
of some, but not of all these parts, it is a com- 
pendious mode of amendment to divide the 
motion into separate questions, to be separately 
voted upon and decided by the assembly. This 



348 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



division may take place by the order of the 
assembly, or a motion regularly made and sec- 
onded for the purpose. 

69. When a motion is thus divided, it be- 
comes a series of questions to be considered and 
treated each by itself, as an independent propo- 
sition in the order in which they stand. A 
complicated question can only be separated by 
moving amendments to it in the usual manner, 
or by moving to a division of it in the manner 
above stated. 

70. It is usually the province of the presiding 
officer (subject, of course, to the revision of the 
assembly) to decide, when the division of a 
motion is demanded, first, whether the proposi- 
tion is susceptible of division; and, secondly,- 
into how many and what parts it may be divided. 

71. A proposition, in order to be divisible, 
must comprehend points so distinct and entire 
that if one or more of them be taken away, the 
others may stand entire and by themselves. 

Sect. IL Filling Blanks. 

72. It often happens that a proposition is in- 
troduced with blanks purposely left by the mover 
to be filled by the assembly, either with times 
and numbers, or with provisions analogous to 
those of the proposition itself. In the latter 
case, blanks are filled in the same way that other 
amendments by the insertion of words are made. 
In the former, propositions to fill blanks are not 
considered as amendments to the question, but 
as original motions, to be made and decided 
before the principal question. 

73. In determining upon the order to be 
adopted, the object is not to begin at that ex- 
treme, which and more, being within every man's 
wish, no one can vote against it, and yet, if it 
should be carried in the affirmative, every ques- 
tion for more would be precluded; but at that 
extreme which will be likely to unite the fewest, 
and then to advance or recede until a number or 
time is reached which will unite a majority. 

Sect. III. Addition, Separation, Trans- 
position. 

74. When the matters contained in two sep- 
arate propositions might be better put into one, 



the mode of proceeding is to reject one of them, 
and then to incorporate the substance of it with 
the other by way of amendment. A better mode, 
however, if the business of the assembly will 
admit of its being adopted, is to refer both pro- 
positions to a committee, with instructions to 
incorporate them together in one. 

75. If the matter of one proposition would be 
more properly distributed into two, any part of it 
may be struck out by way of amendment, and 
put into the form of a new and distinct proposi- 
tion. But in this, as in the former case, a better 
mode would generally be to refer the subject to 
a committee. 

76. In like mannev, if a paragraph or section 
requires to be transposed, a question must be put 
on striking it out where it stands, and another 
for inserting it in the place desired. 

Sect. IV. Withdrawal, Modification or 
Amendment by the Mover. 

77. The mover of a proposition, after it has 
been stated as a question by the presiding officer, 
must obtain the permission of the assembly, by a 
motion and question for the purpose, in order to 
enable him to modify or withdraw his proposi- 
tion. A withdrawal requires unanimous consent 
of the members present. 

78. So, too, when an amendment has been 
regularly moved, seconded and stated, its relation 
is the same with that described in the preceding 
paragraph, it of course rests upon the same foun- 
dation, and is subject to the same rule. 

Before a motion has been stated, the mover 
may modify or withdraw it at his pleasure ; after 
it has been stated, he can only withdraw or mod- 
ify it by general consent ; he may, however, like 
any other member, move to amend. 

Section V. General Rules relating to 
Amendments. 

79. All amendments of which a proposition 
is susceptible, so far as form is concerned, may 
be effected in one of three ways, namely : either 
by inserting or adding certain words; or by strik- 
ing out certain words ; or by striking out certain 
words and inserting or adding others. Theec 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



849 



jeveral forms oi amendment are subject to certain 
general rules, which, being equally applicable to 
chern all, require to be stated beforehand. 

80. First Rule. When a proposition consists 
of several sections, paragraphs, or resolutions, the 
natural order of considering and amending it is 
to begin at the beginning, and to proceed through 
it in course by paragraphs ; and, when a latter 
part has been amended, it is not in order to recur 
lack, and make any alteration or amendment of 
a former part. 

81. Second Rule. Every amendment which can 
be proposed, whether by striking out, or insert- 
ing, or striking out and inserting, is itself sus- 
ceptible of amendment ; but there can be no 
amendment of an amendment to an amendment. 

82. Thus, if a proposition consist of A B, and 
it is proposed to amend by inserting C D, it may 
be moved to amend the amendment by inserting 
E F; but it cannot be moved to amend this 
amendment, as, for example, by inserting G. 
The only mode by which this can be reached is 
to reject the amendment in the form in which it 
is presented, namely, to insert E F, and to move 
it in the form in which it is desired to be 
amended, namely, to insert E F G. 

83. Third Rule. Whatever is agreed to by the 
assembly, on a vote, either adopting or rejecrmg 
a proposed amendment, cannot be afterwards 
altered or amended. 

Thus, if a proposition consist of A B, and it is 
moved to insert C, if the amendment prevail, C 
cannot be afterwards amended, because it has 
been agreed to in that form; and so, if it is 
moved to strike out B, and the amendment is 
rejected, B cannot afterwards be amended, be- 
cause a vote against striking it out is equivalent 
to a vote agreeing to it as it stands. 

84. Fourth Ride. Whatever is disagreed to by 
the assembly, on a vote, cannot be afterwards 
moved again. This rule is the converse of the 
preceding, and may be illustrated in the same 
manner. 

85. Fifth Rule. The inconsistency or incom- 
patibility of a proposed amendment with one 
which has already been adopted is a fit ground 
f^r its rejection by the assembly, but not for the 



suppression of it by the presiding officer, as 
against order. 

Section VI. Amendments by Striking Cjt 

86. If an amendment is proposed by striking 
out a particular paragraph or certain words, and 
the amendment is rejected, it cannot be agaij! 
moved to strike out the same words or a part of 
them ; but it may be moved to strike out the 
same words with others, or to strike out a part of 
the same words with others, provided the coher- 
ence to be struck out be so substantial as to make 
these, in fact, different propositions .from the 
former. 

87. If an amendment by striking out is agreed 
to, it cannot be afterwards moved to insert the 
same words struck oat, or a part of them ; but it 
may be moved to insert the same words with 
others, or a part of the same words with others, 
provided the coherence to be inserted make these 
propositions substantially different from the 
first. 

88. When it is proposed to amend by striking 
out a particular paragraph, it may be moved to 
amend this amendment in three different ways, 
namely : either by striking out a part only of the 
paragraph, or by inserting or adding words, or 
by striking out and inserting. 

89c As an amendment must necessarily be put 
to the question before the principal motion, so 
the question must be put on an amendment to an 
amendment V "^ore it is put on the amendment. 

90. When a motion for striking out words is 
put to the question, the parliamentary form 
always is, whether the words shall stand as part 
of the principal motion, and not whether they 
shall be struck out. 

91. On a motion to amend by striking out 
certain words, the manner of stating the ques- 
tion is, first to read the passage proposed to be 
amended, as it stands; then the words proposed 
to be struck out; and, lastly, the whole passage 
as it will stand if the amendment is adopted. 

Sect. VII. Amendment? by Inserting. 

92. If an amendment is proposed by inserting 
or adding a paragraph or words, and the amend- 



350 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



ment is rejected, it cannot be moved again to in- 
sert the same words or a part of them ; but it 
may be moved to insert the same vi^ords with 
others or a part of the same words with others, 
provided the coherence really make them differ- 
ent propositions. 

93. If it is proposed to amend by inserting a 
paragraph, and the amendment prevails, it can- 
not be afterwards moved to strike out the same 
words or a part of them ; but it may be moved to 
strike out the same words with others,^ or a part 
of the same words with others, provided the 
coherence be such as make the proposition 
really different from the first. 

94. When it is proposed to amend by insert- 
ing a paragraph, this amendment may be 
amended in three different ways ; namely, either 
by striking out a part of the paragraph, or by 
inserting something into it, or by striking out 
and inserting. 

95. When it is proposed to amend by insert- 
ing a paragraph, those who are in favor of the 
amendment should amend it, if necessary, before 
the question is taken ; becausCj if it is rejected, 
it cannot be moved again, and if received, it 
cannot be amended. 

96. On a motion to amend by inserting a 
paragraph, the manner of stating the question is 
first to read the passage to be amended, as it 
stands ; then the words proposed to be inserted ; 
and lastly, the whole passage as it will stand if 
the amendment prevails. 

_Sect. VIII. Amendment by Striking out and 
Inserting. 

97. The third form of amending a proposition, 
namely, by striking out certain words and insert- 
ing others in their place, is, in fact, a combina- 
tion of the other two forms, and may accord- 
ingly be divided into those two forms, either by 
a vote of the assembly, or on the demand of a 
member under a special rule to that effect. 
When the parliamentary form of putting the 
question, on a motion to strike or leave out 
words, is adopted, the question is first stated that 

^ This is the common case of striking out a paragraph, 
after having amended it by inserting words. 



the words proposed to be struck out stand as 
part of the motion. ' If this question passes in 
the negative, a question is then to be stated on 
inserting the words proposed, which may be 
amended like any other motion to insert or add 
words. If the question on the standing of the 
words passes in the affirmative, the residue of the 
motion to strike out and insert falls without a 
question. According to the parliamentary form, 
therefore, a motion to strike out and insert is 
necessarily divided. 

93. When the motion is divided, the question 
is first to be taken on striking out, and if that is 
decided in the affirmative, then on inserting ; but 
if the former is decided in the negative, the lat- 
ter falls, of course. On a division, the proceed- 
ings are the same in reference to each branch of 
the question, beginning with the striking out, as 
if each branch had been moved by itself. 

99. If the motion to strike out and insert is 
put to the question undivided, and is decided in 
the negative, the same motion cannot be made 
again : but it may be moved to strike out the 
same words, and, i, insert nothing; 2, insert 
other words; 3, insert the same words with 
others ; 4, insert a part of the same words with 
otheis; 5, strike out the same words with others, 
and insert the same ; 6, strike out a part of the 
same words with others, and insert the same; 
7, strike out other words, and insert the same ; 
and, 8, insert the same words, without striking 
out anything. 

100. If the motion to strike out and insert is 
decided in the affirmative, it cannot be then 
moved to insert the words struck out or a part of 
them, or to strike out the words inserted or a part 
of them: but it may be moved, i, to insert the 
same words with others ; 2, to insert a part of the 
same words with others ; 3, to strike out the same 
words with others ; or, 4, to strike out a part of 
the same words with others. 

101. When it is proposed to amend by strik- 
ing out and inserting, this amendment may be 
amended in three different ways in the para- 
graph proposed to be struck out, and also in the 
paragraph proposed to be inserted ; namely, by 
striking out, or inserting, or striking out and 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



351 



iriserting. And those who are in favor of either 
paragraph must amend it before the question is 
taken, for the reasons that, if decided in the 
affirmative, the part struck out cannot be restored, 
nor can the part inserted be amended j and, if 
decided in the negative, the part proposed to be 
struck out cannot be amended, nor can the para- 
graph proposed to be inserted be moved again. 

102. On a motion to amend by striking out 
certain words and inserting others, the manner 
of stating the question is, first to read the whole 
passage to be amended, as it stands ; then the 
words proposed to be struck out ; next, those to 
be inserted ; and, lastly, the whole passage as it 
will stand when amended. 

[N-OTE. — It is essential to any tolerably rapid 
transaction of business, that no proposition should 
by a simple change of form be brought twice 
before the assembly. If it desires further to con- 
sider the matter, it can always do so by a vote to 
reconsider, although it might be necessary in 
some cases to suspend a general rule for that 
purpose.] 

Sec. IX. Amendments Changing the 
Nature of a Question. 

103. The term ''amendment" is in strict- 
ness applicable only to those changes of a propo- 
sition by which it is improved. Hence it seems 
proper, that those only should undertake to 
amend a proposition who are friendly to it ; but 
this is by no means the rule : when a proposition 
is regularly moved, seconded and stated, it is in 
the possession of the assembly, and may be put 
into any shape, and turned to any purpose, that 
the assembly m.ay think proper. 

104. It is consequently allowable to amend 
a proposition in such a manner as entirely to 
alter its nature, and to make it bear a sense differ- 
ent from what it was originally intended to bear; 
so that the friends of it, as it was first introduced, 
may themselves be forced to vote against it in its 
amended form. 

105. This mode of proceeding is sometimes 
adopted for the purpose of defeating a proposi- 
tion, by compelling its original friends to unite 
with those who are opposed to it, in voting for 



its rejection. But sometimes the nature of a 
proposition is changed by means of amendments, 
with a view to its adoption in a sense the very 
opposite of what it was originally in'-ended to 
bear. 

106. Another mode of defeating a proposi- 
tion is to carry out or extend the principle of it, 
by means of amendments, so as to show the in- 
convenience, absurdity, or danger of its adop- 
tion, with such evident clearness that it becomes 
impossible for the assembly to agree to it. Thus, 
a motion having been made in the House of 
Commons, '' for copies of all the letters written 
by the lords of the admiralty to a certain officer 
in the navy," it was moved to amend the 
motion by adding these words : " which letters 
may contain orders, or be relative to orders not 
executed and still subsisting." This amendment 
being adopted, the motion as amended was unan- 
imously rejected. 

107. It will be seen, from the foregoing, that, 
as the mover of a proposition is under no restric- 
tion as to embracing incongruous matters under 
the same motion, so, on the other hand, the as* 
sembly may ingraft upon a motion, by way of 
amendment, matter which is not only incongru- 
ous with, but entirely opposed to, the motion as 
originally introduced ; and in legislative assem- 
blies it is not unusual to amend a bill by striking 
out all after the enacting clause, and inserting 
an entirely new bill ; or, to amend a resolution 
by striking out all after the words, ''Resolved 
that,"^ and inserting a proposition of a wholly 
different tenor. 

CHAPTER X. 
The Order and Succession of Questions. 

108. It is a general rule that when a proposi- 
tion is regularly before a deliberative assembly, for 
its consideration, no other proposition or motion 
can regularly be made or arise so as to take the 
place of the former, and be first acted upon, 
unless it be either, Jirst, a privileged question; 
secondly, a subsidiary question ; or, thirdly, an 
incidental question or motion. 

109. All these motions take the place of the 
principal motion, or main question, as it is usuallj- 



352 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



called, and are to be first put to the question ; 
and among themselves, also, there are some 
which, in like manner, take the place of all the 
others. Some of these questions merely super- 
sede the principal question, until they have been 
decided, and when decided, whether affirmatively 
or negatively, leave that question as before. 
Others of them also supersede the principal ques- 
tion until they are decided ; and, when decided 
one way, dispose of the principal question, but, if 
decided the other way, leave it as before. 

Section I, Privileged Questions. 

110. There are certain motions or questions 
which, on account of the superior importance 
attributed to them, either in consequence of a 
vote of the assembly, or in themselves consid- 
ered, or of the necessity of the proceedings to 
which they lead, are entitled to take the place of 
any other subject or proposition which may then 
be under consideration, and to be first acted 
upon and decided by the assembly. These are 
called privileged questions, because they are enti- 
tled to precedence over other questions, though 
they are of different degrees among themselves. 
Questions of this nature are of three kinds : 
namely, first^ motions to adjourn ; secondly, mo- 
tions or questions relating to the rights and priv- 
ileges of the assembly, or of its members indi- 
vidually ; and, thirdly, motions for the orders of 
the day. 

Adjournment. 

111. A motion to adjourn takes the place of 
all other questions whatsoever (but it may not 
immediately follow a motion to adjourn, before 
another motion or business has been considered); 
for otherwise the assembly might be kept sitting 
against its will, and for an indefinite time ^ but, 
in order to entitle this motion to precedence, it 
must be simply to '^ adjourn," without the addi- 
tion of any particular day or time ; though, if a 
motion to adjourn is made when no other busi- 
ness is before the assembly, it may be amended 
like other questions. 

112» A motion to adjourn is merely, '^that this 
assembly do now adjourn ; " and, if it is carried 
m the affirmative, the assembly is adjourned to 



the next sitting da/; unless it has previously 
come to a resolution, that, on rising, it will ad- 
journ to a particular day; in which case, it is 
adjourned to that day. » 

113. An adjournment without day, that is, 
without any time being fixed for re-assembling, 
would, in the case of any other than a legislative 
assembly, be equivalent to a dissolution. A bet- 
ter form would be a motion to dissolve, where 
the organization is not to meet again. 

114. When a question is interrupted by an 
adjournment before any vote or question has 
been taken upon it, it is thereby removed from 
before the assembly, and will not stand before it, 
as a matter of course, at its next meeting, but 
m:ast be brought forward in the usual way. 

Questions of Privilege. 

115. The questions next in relative impor- 
tance, and which supersede all others for the 
time being, except that of adjournment, are 
those which concern the rights and privileges of 
the assembly or of its individual members ; as, 
for example, when the proceedings of the assem- 
bly are disturbed or interrupted, whether by 
strangers or members, or where a quarrel arises 
between two members ; and, in these cases, the 
matter of privilege supersedes the question pend- 
ing at the time, together with all subsidiary and 
incidental ones, and must be first disposed of. 
When settled, the question interrupted by it is tc 
be resumed at the point where it was suspended. 

Orders of the Day. 

116. When the consideration of a subject has 
been assigned for a particular day, by an order 
of the assembly, the matter so assigned is called 
the order of the day for that day. If, in the 
course of business, as commonly happens in 
legislative assemblies, there are several subjects 
assigned for the same day, they are called the 
orders of the day. 

117. A question which is thus made the sub- 
ject of an order for its consideration on a parti- 
cular day is thereby made a privileged question 
for that day ; the order being a repeal, as to this 
special case, of the general rule as to business. 



i 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



353 



If, therefore, any other proposition (with the 
exception of the two preceding) is moved, or 
arises, on the day assigned for the consideration 
of a particular subject, a motion for the order of 
the day will supersede the question first made, 
together with all subsidiary and incidental ques- 
tions connected with it, and must be first put and 
decided] for, if the debate or consideration of 
that subject were allowed to proceed, i. might 
continue through the day, and thus defeat the 
order. 

118. But this motion, to entitle it to prece- 
dence, must be for the orders generally, if there 
IS more than one, and not for any particular one ; 
and if decided in the affirmative, that is, that 
the assembly will now proceed to the orders of 
the day, they must then be read and gone through 
with in the order in which they stand ; priority 
of order being considered to give priority of 
ifight. _ 

119. If the consideration of a subject is as- 
signed for a particular hour on the day named, a 
motion to proceed to it is not a privileged mo- 
tion, until that hour has arrived; but, if no hour 
is fixed, the order is for the entire day and every 
part of it. 

120. Where there are several orders of the 
day, and one of them is fixed for a particular 
hour, if the orders are taken up before that hour, 
they are to be proceeded with as they stand, 
until that hour, and then the subject assigned for 
that hour is the next in order; but, if the orders 
are taken up at that time or afterwards, that par- 
ticular subject must be considered as the first in 
order. 

121. If the motion for the orders of the day is 
decided in the affirmative, the original question 
is removed from before the assembly, in the same 
manner as if it had been interrupted by an ad- 
journment, and does not stand before the assem- 
bly, as a matter of course, at its next meeting, but 
must be renewed in the usual way. 

122. If the motion is decided in the negative, 
the vote of the assembly is a discharge of the 
orders, so far as they interfere with the considera- 
tion of the subject then before it, and '»ntitles 
that subject to be first disposed of- 

23 



123. Orders of the day, unless proceeded in 
and disposed of on the day assigned, fall, of 
course, and must be renewed for some other day. 
It may be provided, however, by a special rule, 
as in the legislative assemblies of Massachusetts, 
that the orders for a particular day shall hold for 
every succeeding day, until disposed of. 

Sect. II. Incidental Questions. 

124. Incidental questions are such as arise out 
of other questions, and are consequently to be 
decided before the questions which give rise to 
them. Of this nature are, firs ' questions of 
order; second, motions for the reading of papers, 
etc.; third, leave to withdraw a motion; fourth^ 
suspension of a rule; and, fifth, amendment o/ 
an amendment. 

Questions of Order. 

125. It is the duty of the presiding officer of 
a deliberative assembly to enforce the rules and 
orders of the body over which he presides, in all 
its proceedings; and this without question, de- 
bate, or delay, in all cases in which the breach 
of order, or the departure from rule, is manifest. 
It is also the right of every member, taking 
notice of the breach of a rule, to insist upon the 
enforcement ot it in the same manner. 

126. But though no question can be made as 
to the enforcement of the rules, when there is a 
breach or manifest departure from them, so long 
as any member insists upon their enforcement, 
yet questions may and do frequently arise as to 
the fact of their being a breach of order, or a 
violation of the rules, in a particular proceeding ; 
and these questions must be decided before a 
case can arise for the enforcement of the rules. 
Questions of this kind are denominated questions 
of order. 

127. When any question of this nature arises 
in the course of any other proceeding, it neces- 
sarily supersedes the further consideration of the 
subject out of which it arises, until that question 
is disposed of; then the original motion or pro* 
ceeding revives, and resumes its former position, 
unless it has been itself disposed of by the ques- 
"ir^n of order. 



354 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 




128. When a question of order is raised, it is 
decided, in the first instance, by the presiding 
officer, without any previous debate or discussion 
by the assembly. The presiding officer may, be- 
fore giving his opinion, if he pleases, ask the 
opinions of others, but when he is ready to give 
Ms opinion he may do so at once without hearing 
further from any member. If the decision of the 
presiding officer is not satisfactory, any one mem- 
ber may object to it, and have the question de- 
cided by the assembly. This is called appealing 
from the decision of the chair. The question is 
then stated by the presiding officer, on the ap- 
peal ; namely. Shall the decision of the chair stand 
as the decision of the assembly ? and it is there- 
upon debated and decided by the assembly in 
the same manner as any other question ; except 
that the presiding officer is allowed to take a part 
in the debate, which, on ordinary occasions, he is 
prohibited from doing. 

Reading Papers. 

129. It is, for obvious reasons, a general rule, 
that where papers are laid before a deliberative 
assembly for its action, every member has a right 
to have them once read at the table, before he 
can be compelled to vote on them; and con- 
jsequently, when the reading of any paper relative 
to a question before the assembly is called for 
under this rule, no question need be made as to 
the reading : the paper is read by the clerk, under 
the direction of the presiding officer, as a matter 
of course. 

130. But, with the exception of papers coming 
under this rule, it is not the right of any member 
to read himself, or to have read, any paper, book, 
or document whatever, without the leave of the 
assembly, upon a motion made and a question 
put for the purpose. The delay and interruption 
Ijnrhich would otherwise ensue from reading every 
•paper that might be called for show the absolute 

necessity of restricting the rule within the nar- 
rowest possible limits, consistently with permit- 
ting every member to have as much information 
as possible on the subjects in reference to which 
he is about to vote. 

131. When, therefore, a itj ember desires that 



any paper, book, or document, on the table, 
whether printed or written (except as above men- 
tioned), should be read for his own information, 
or that of the assembly ; or desires to read any 
such paper, book, or document, in his place, in 
the course of a debate or otherwise, or even to 
read his own speech which he has prepared be« 
forehand, and committed to writing, — in all these 
cases, if any objection is made, he must obtain 
leave of the assembly for the reading, by a mo- 
tion an'^ vote for the purpose. 

132. When the reading of a paper is evidently 
for information, and not for delay, it is the usual 
practice for the presiding officer to allow it, 
unless objection is made, in which case leave 
must be asked ; and this is seldom refused, where 
there is no intentional or gross abuse of the time 
and patience of the assembly. 

133. It is not now the practice, as it once was, 
in legislative assemblies, to read all papers that are 
presented, especially when they are referred to 
committees immediately on their presentation; 
though the right of every member to insist upon 
one reading is still admitted. It would be im- 
possible, with the amount of business done by 
legislative bodies at the present day, to devote 
much of their time to the reading of papers. 

134. When, in the course of a debate or other 
proceeding, the reading of a paper is called for, 
and a question is made upon it, this question is 
incidental to the former, and must be first 
decided. 

Suspension of a Rule. 

135. When any contemplated motion or pro- 
ceeding is rendered impracticable, by reason of 
the existence of some special rule by which it i«^ 
prohibited, it has become an established practice 
in this country, to suspend or dispense with the 
rule, for the purpose of admitting the proceeding 
or motion which is desired. This can only be 
done by a motion and question ; usually re- 
quiring, by special rule, a majority of two-thirds 
to three-fourths to carry ; where this is not pro- 
vided, there is no other mode of suspending or 
dispensing with a rule than by general consent. 
A motion to suspend the rule supersedes the orig- 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



355 



al question tor the time being, and is first to be 
cided. 

Section III. Subsidiary Questions. 

136. Subsidiary or secondary questions or 
motions are those which relate to a principal 
motion, and are made use of to enable the as- 

lahly to dispose of it in the most appropriate 
1 1 inner. These motions have the effect to super- 
sede, and in some cases, when decided one way, 
to dispose of, the principal question. 

137. The subi^idiary motions in common use 
are the following, namely '. lie on the table, the 
previous question, postponement either indefinite 
^^' to a day certain, com/mitment, and amend- 

nt. All of which have already been consid- 
'd, consequently are but briefly treated here. 

Lie on the Table. 

38. The motion to lay on the table takes pre- 

\mce, of and supersedes all other subsidiary 

Jtions. If decided in the affirmative, the prin- 

al motion, together with all the other motions, 

,oi.diary and incidental, connected with it, is 

removed from before the assembly, until it is 

•^"ain taken up; which it may be by motion and 

e, at any time when the assembly pleases. If 

:ied in the negative, the business proceeds 

the same manner as if the motion had never 

] made. 

Previous Question. 

139. This motion stands in an equal degree 
th all the other subsidiary motions, except the 

rion to lie on the table ; and consequently, if 
L moved, is not subject to be superseded by a 
•tjon to postpone, commit, or amend. 

140. If the previous question is moved before 
others above mentioned, and put to the ques- 

>n, it has the effect to prevent those motions 
from being made at all. The same rule holds 
good for motions to postpone, commit, or amend. 
The motion first made takes precedence of all 
other subsidiary motions, except to lie on the 
table. 

Postponement. 

. 141. The motion to postpone is either indefi- 
nite or to a day certain, and, in both these forms. 



may be amended, — in the former, by making it 
to a day certain; in the latter, by substituting; 
one day for another. 

142. If, therefore, a motion is made for an 
indefinite postponement, it may be moved to 
amend the motion by making it to a day certain. 
If a motion is made for a postponement to a day 
certain, it may be amended by the substitution of 
a different day. 

143. If a motion for postponement is decided 
affirmatively, the proposition to which it is 
applied is removed from before the assembly, 
with all its appendages and incidents, and conse- 
quently there is no ground for either of the other 
subsidiary motions; if decided negatively, that 
the proposition shall not be postponed, that ques- 
tion may then be suppressed by the previous 
question, or committed, or amended. 

Commitment. 

144. A motion to commit; or recommit 
(which is the term used when the proposition has 
already becu once committed), may be amended 
by the substitution of one kind of committee for 
another, or by enlarging or diminishing the 
number of the members of the committee as 
originally proposed, or by instructions to tae 
committee. 

145. If decided affirmatively, the proposition 
is removed from before the assembly, and conse- 
quently there is no ground for the previoui 
question or for postponement or amendment; 
if negatively, to wit, that the principal question 
shall not be committed, that question may then 
be suppressed by the previous question, or post- 
poned, or amended. 

Amendment. 

146. A motion to amend, as has been seen, 
may be itself amended. This motion is liable to 
be superseded by a motion to postpone to a day 
certain ; so that, amendment and postponement 
competing, the latter is to be first put. The 
reason is, that a question for amendment is not 
suppressed by postponing or adjourning the 
principal question, but remains before the assem- 
bly whenever the main question is resumed. 



S56 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



147. A motion to amend may also be super- 
seded by a motion to commit ; so that the latter, 
though subsequently moved, is to be first put, 
because, " in truth, it facilitates and befriends 
the motion to amend." 

148. The effect of both a negative and an 
^affirmative decision of amendments has already 
been considered. (79 to 102.) 

CHAPTER XL 
The Order of Proceeding. 

149. When several subjects are before the 
assembly, that is, on their table for consideration 
(for there can be but a single subject under con- 
sideration at any one time), and no priority has 
been given to any one over another, the presid- 
ing^ ofi&cer is not precisely bound to any order as 
to what Htatters shall be first taken up ; but is 
left to his own discretion^ unless the assembly on 
a question (decide to take up a particular subject. 

150. A settled order of business, however, is 
useful if not necessary for the government of the 
presiding ©fficer, and to restrain individual mem- 
bers from calling up favorite measures. The 
order of business may be established in virtue of 
some general rule, or by special orders relating 
to each particular subject, and must, of course, 
necessarily depend upon the nature and amount 
of the matters before the assembly. 

151. The natural order in considermg and 
amending any paper which consists of several 
distinct propositions is, to begin at the begin- 
ning, and proceed through it by paragraphs. To 
this natural order of beginning at the beginning, 
there is one exception according to parliamentary 
usage, where a resolution or series of resolutions, 
or other paper, has a preamble or title ; in which 
case, the preamble or title is postponed until the 
residue of the paper is gone through with. 

152. In considering a proposition consistmg 
of several paragraphs, the course is, for the whole 
paper to be read entirely through, in the first 
place, by the clerk ; then a second time, by the 
presiding officer, by paragraphs ; pausing at the 
end of each, and putting questions for amending, 
if amendments are proposed ; and, when the 
whole paper has been gone through with in this 



manner, the presiding officer puts the final ques- 
tion on agreeing to or adopting the whole paper, 
as amended or unamended. 

153. When a paper which has been referred 
to a committee, and reported back to the assem- 
bly, is taken up for consideration, the amend- 
ments only are first read, in course, by the clerk. 
The presiding officer then reads the first, and 
puts it to the question, and so on until the whole 
are adopted or rejected, before any other amend- 
ment is admitted, with the exception of an 
amendment to an amendment, afterwards giving 
opportunity for the assembly to offer amend- 
ments ; and, when through the whole, he puts 
the question on agreeing to or adopting the 
paper, as the resolution, order, etc., of the assem- 
bly. If carried, the resolution or order is then 
to be entered in the journal as the resolution, 
etc., of the assembly, and not as the report of 
the committee accepted. 

154. When the paper referred to a commit- 
tee is reported back, as amended, in a new draft 
(which may be and often is done, where the amend, 
ments are numerous and comparatively unimport- 
ant), the new draft is to be considered as an 
amendment, and it is to be first amended, if 
necessary, and then put to the question as an 
amendment reported by the committee ; or, the 
course may be first to accept the new draft as a 
substitute for the original paper, and then to 
tre .t it as such. 

155. It often happens, that, besides a prin- 
cipal question, there are several others connected 
with it, pending at the same time, which are to 
be taken in their order : as, for example, suppose, 
first, a principal motion; second^ a motion to 
amend ; third, a motion to commit ; fourth, the 
preceding motions being pending, a question of 
order arises in the debate, which gives occasion, 
fifth, to a question of privilege ; and this leads, 
sixth, to a subsidiary motion, as, to lie on the 
table. The regular course of proceeding requires 
the motion to lie on the table to be first put ; 
if this is negatived, the question of privilege is 
then settled ; after that comes the question of 
order; then the question of commitment; if 
that is negatived, the question of amendment is 



* 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



357 



1 



^aken; and, lastly, the main question. This 
example will sufficiently illustrate the manner in 
which questions may grow out of one another, 
dnd in what order they are to be decided.^ 

156. It is a most unparliamentary and abusive 
proceeding to allow a principal motion, and a 
subsidiary one relating to it, to be proposed and 
stated together, and to be put to the question in 
their order ; as is done when a member moves a 
principal question — a resolution, for example — 
and, at the same time, the previous question, or 
that the resolution lie on the table. In such a 
case the presiding officer should take no notice 
whatever of the subsidiary motion, but should 
propose the principal one by itself in the usual 
manner, before allowing any other to be made. 
Other members then would not be deprived of 
their rights in debate, etc, in relation to the 
subject moved. 

157. When a member has obtained the floor, 
he cannot be cut off from addressing the assem- 
bly on the one question before itj nor, when 
speaking, can he be interrupted in his speech by 
any other member rising, and moving an adjourn- 
ment, or for the orders of the day, or by making 
any other privileged motion of the same kind : it 
being a general rule that a member in possession 
of the floor, or proceeding with his speech, can- 
not be taken down or interrupted but by a call to 
order ; and the question of order being decided, 
he is still to be heard through. A call for an 
adjournment, or for the orders of the day, or for 
the question, by gentlemen in their seats, is not 
a motion ; as no motion can be made without 
rising and addressing the chair, and being called 
to by the presiding officer. Such calls for the 
question are themselves breaches of order, which, 
though the member who has risen may respect 
them as an expression of the impatience of the 
assembly at further debate, do not prevent him 
from going on if h^ pleases. When, therefore, a 
member rises whilst another is speaking, and 
addresses the chair, he should inform the presid- 
ing officer that he rises to a point of order, or to 
the orders of the assembly, or to a matter of 

* The order of motions, for the disposal of any question, 
is usually fixed by a special rule, in legislative assemblies. 



privilege. It will then be the duty of the presid- 
ing officer to direct the member speaking to sus- 
pend his remarks, or to resume his seat, and the 
member rising to proceed with the statement of his 
point or other matter of order or of privilege. If 
the latter, on proceeding, discloses matter which 
shows that the interruption was proper, the sub- 
ject so introduced must first be disposed of; and 
then the member who was interrupted is to be 
directed to proceed with his speech. If it ap- 
pears that there was no sufficient ground for the 
interruption, the member rising is to be directed 
to resume his seat ; and the member interrupted 
to proceed with his speech. Any matter of 
privilege affecting the assembly itself, or any of 
its members, of which the assembly ought to 
have instant information, furnishes an occasion 
for interruption ; as, for example, where access to 
the place of sitting of the assembly is obstructed, 
or the person of a member is attacked ; or where 
something connected with the proceeding of 
the assembly requires instant attention, as where 
it becomes necessary to have lights ; or where 
something occurs relative to the member himself 
who is speaking, as where he is annoyed and dis- 
turbed by noise and disorder, or where, in con- 
sequence of his strength failing him, it becomes 
necessary that he should finish his speech sitting. 

CHAPTER XII. 
Order in Debate. 

158. It is a general rule, in all deliberative 
assemblies, that the presiding officer shall not 
participate in the debate or other proceedings, 
in any other capacity than as such officer. He is 
only allowed, therefore, to state matters of fac* 
within his knowledge ; to inform the assemble 
on points of order or the course of proceeding, 
when called upon for that purpose, or when he 
finds it necessary to do so ; and, on appeals from 
his decision on questions of order, to address the 
assembly in debate. 

Section I. As to thb Manner of Speaking. 

159. When a member desires to address the 
assembly on any subject before it (as well as to 
make a motion), he is to rise and stand up in his 



358 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



place, uncovered, and to address himself not to 
' the assembly or any particular member, but to 
the presiding officer, who, on hearing him, calls 
to him by his name, that the assembly may take 
notice who it is that speaks, and give their 
attention accordingly. If any question arises, 
as to who shall be entitled to the floor where 
several members rise at or nearly at the same 
time, it is decided in the manner already de- 
scribed (38), as to obtaining the floor to make a 
motion. 

160. It is customary, indeed, for the presiding 
officer, after a motion has been made, seconded, 
and proposed, to give the floor to the mover,^ in 
preference to others, if he rises to speak ; or, on 
resuming a debate after an adjournment, to 
give the floor, if he desires it, to the mover of the 
adjournment, in preference to other members; 
or, where two or more members claim the 
floor, to prefer him who is opposed to the meas- 
ure in question ; but, in all these cases, the deter- i 
mination of the presiding officer may be over- 
ruled by the assembly. 

161. No person, in speaking, is to mention a 
member then present by his name ; but to de- 
scribe him by his seat in the assembly, or as the 
member who spoke last, or last but one, or on 
the other side of the question, or by some other 
equivalent expression. The purpose of this rule 
is to guard as much as possible against the excite- 
ment of all personal feeling, by separating, as it 
were, the official from the personal character of 
each member. 

162. If the presiding officer rises up to speak, 
any other member who may have risen for the 
same purpose ought to sit down, in order that the 
former may be first heard ; but this rule does not 
authorize the presiding officer to interrupt a mem- 
ber whilst speaking, or to cut off one to whom he 
has given the floor; he must wait like other 
members, until such member has done speaking, 

* Sometimes a member, instead of proposing his motion 
at first, proceeds with his speech ; but in such a case he is 
liable to be taken down to order, unless he states that he 
intends to conclude with a motion, and informs the assem- 
bly what that motion is ; and then he may be allowed to 
proceed. 



except when the member himself is guilty of a 
breach of order. 

163. A member, whilst speaking, must remain 
standing in his place, uncovered ; and, when he 
has finished his speech, he ought to resume his 
seat ; but if unable to stand without pain or in- 
convenience, in consequence of age, sickness, or 
other infirmity, he may be indulged to speak 
sitting. , 

Sect. II. As to the Matter in Speaking. 

164. Every question that can be made in a 
deliberative assembly is susceptible of being de- 
bated^ according to its nature; that is, every 
member has the right of expressing his opinion 
upon it. Hence it is a general rule, and the 
principal one relating to this matter, that, in 
debate, those who speak are to confine them- 
selves to the question, and not to speak imperti- 
nently or beside the subject. So long as a mem- 
ber has the floor, and keeps within the rule, he 
may speak for as long a time as he pleases. 

165. It is also a rule, that no person, in speak- 
ing, is to use indecent language against the pro- 
ceedings of the assembly, or to reflect upon any 
of its prior determinations, unless he means to 
conclude his remarks with a motion to rescind 
such determination; but while a proposition 
under consideration is still pending, and not 
adopted, though it may have been reported by a 
committee, reflections on it are no reflections on 
the assembly. The rule applies equally to the 
proceedings of committees ; which are, indeed, 
the proceedings of the assembly. 

166. Another rule in speaking is, that no 
member is at liberty to digress from the matter 
of the question, to fall upon the person of 
another, and to speak reviling, nipping, or un- 
mannerly words of or to him. The nature or con- 
sequences of a measure may be reprobated in 
strong terms ; but to arraign the motives of 
those who advocate it, is a personality and 
against order. 

' In legislative bodies, it is usual to provide that certain 
questions, as, for example, to adjourn, to lie on the table, 
for the previous question, or as to the order of business, 
shall be decided without debate. 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



359 



167. It often happens, in the consideration of 
a subject, that, whilst the general question re- 
mains the same, the particular question before 
the assembly is constantly changing : thus while, 
for example, the general question is on the adop- 
tion of a series of resolutions, the particular 
question may, at one moment, be on an amend- 
ment j at another, on postponement ; and, again^ 
on the previous question. In all these cases, the 
particular question supersedes, for the time, the 
main question ; and those who speak to it must 
confine their remarks accordingly. The enforce- 
ment of order in this respect requires the closest 
attention on the part of the presiding officer. 

168. When a member is interrupted by the 
presiding officer, or called to order by a member, 
for irrelevancy or departing from the question, he 
is still to be allowed to proceed in order, that is, 
abandoning the objectionable course of remark. 

Sect. III. as to Times of Speaking. 

169. The general rule in all deliberative as- 
semblies, unless it is otherwise specially provided, 
is, that no member shall speak more than once 
to the same question;^ but when all members 
who desire to speak have spoken, a member may 
speak a second time by leave of the assembly. 

170. If a resolution is moved and debated, 
and then referred to a committee, those who 
speak on the introduction of the motion may 
speak again on the question presented by the 
report of the committee, though it is sub- 
stantially the same question with the former ; 
and so a member who has spoken on the princi- 
pal or main question may speak again on all the 
subsidiary or incidental questions arising in [the 
course of the debate. That is, he may speak to 
the same subject as often as it is presented in the 
form of a different question. 

171. A member may also be permitted to 
speak a second time in the same debate, in order 
to clear a matter of fact, or merely to explain 
himself in some material part of his speech ; or 

* The mover and seconder, if they do not speak to the 
qnestion at the time when the motion is made and seconded, 
have the same right with other members to address the as- 
aembly 



to the orders of the assembly, if they be trans- 
gressed (although no question may be made), 
but carefully keeping within that line, and not 
falling into the matter itself. 

172. It is sometimes supposed that because a 
member has a right to explain himself, he there- 
fore has a right to interrupt another member 
whilst speaking, in order to make the explana- 
tion, but this is a mistake ; he should wait until 
the member speaking has finished ; and if a 
member, on being requested, yields the floor for 
an explanation, he relinquishes it altogether. 

Sect. IV. As to Stopping Debate. 

173. The only mode in use in this country, 
until recently, for the purpose of putting an end 
to an unprofitable or tiresome debate, was by 
moving the previous question ; the effect of 
^'hich motion has already been explained. 

174. The other mode of putting an end to 
debate, which has recently been introduced into 
use, is for the assembly to adopt beforehand, a 
special order in reference to a particular subject, 
that at such a time specified, all debate upon it 
shall cease, and all motions or questions pending 
in relation to it shall be decided. 

175. Another rule, which has lately been in- 
troduced for the purpose of shortening rather 
than stopping debate, is that no member shall hi 
permitted to speak more than a certain specified 
time on any question ; so that when the time 
allotted has expired, the presiding officer an- 
nounces the fact, and the member speaking 
resumes his seat. 

Sect. V. As to Decorum in Debate. 

176. Every member having the right to be 
heard, every other member is bound to conduct 
himself in such a manner that this right may be 
effectual. Hence it is a rule of order, as well as 
of decency, that no member is to disturb another 
in his speech by any disorderly deportment which 
tends to disturb or disconcert a member who is 
speaking. (See 32.) 

177. But if a member speaking finds that he 
is not regarded with that respectful attention 
which his equal right demands, — that it is riot the 



S60 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



inclination of the assembly to hear him, and that 
by conversation or any other noise they endeavor 
to drown his voice, — it is his most prudent 
course to submit himself to the pleasure of the 
assembly, and to sit down. 

178. It is the duty of the presiding officer, in 
such a case, to endeavor to reduce the assembly 
to order and decorum ; but if his repeated calls 
to order, and his appeals to the good sense and 
decency of the members prove ineffectual, it then 
becomes his duty to call by name any member 
who obstinately persists in irregularity and to try 
him before the assembly as already provided. 
(33 and 34.) 

179. If, on repeated 'trials, the presiding offi- 
cer finds that the assembly will not support him 
in the exercise of his authority, he will then be 
justified, but not till then, in permitting without 
censure every kind of disorder. 

Sect VI. As to Disorderly Words. 

180. If a member, in speaking, makes use of 
language which is personally offensive to another 
or insulting to the assembly, and the member 
offended, or any other, thinks proper to com- 
plain of it to the assembly, the course of pro- 
ceeding is as follows : 

181. The member speaking is immediately 
interrupted in the course of his speech, by an- 
other or several members rising and calling to 
order; and the member who objects or com- 
plains of the words is then called upon by the 
presiding officer to state the words which he com- 
plains of, repeating them exactly as he conceives 
them to have been spoken, in order that they may 
be reduced to writing by the clerk ; or the member 
complaining, without being so called upon, may 
proceed at once to state the words either verbally 
or in writing and desire that the clerk may take 
them down at the table. The presiding officer may 
then direct the clerk to take them down ; but if 
he sees the objection to be a trivial one, and 
thinks there is no foundation for their being 
thought disorderly, he will prudently delay giv- 

IBk ing any such directions, in order not unneces- 

■'^ sarily to interrupt the proceedings ; though if the 

members generally seem to be in favor of having 



the words taken down, by calling out to that 
effect, or by a vote which the assembly may 
doubtless pass, the presiding officer should cer- 
tainly order the clerk to take them down in the 
form and manner in which they are stated by the 
member who objects. 

182. The words objected to being thus written 
down, and forming a part of the minutes in the 
clerk's book, they are next to be read to the 
member who was speaking, who may deny that 
those are the words which he spoke ; in which 
case the assembly must decide by a question, 
whether they are the words or not.^ If he does 
not deny that he spoke those words, or when the 
assembly has itself determined what the words 
are, then the member may either justify them, or 
explain the sense in which he used them, so as to 
remove the objection to their being disorderly ; 
or he may make an apology for them. 

183. If the justification or explanation or 
apology of the member is thought sufficient by 
the assembly, no further proceeding is necessary ; 
the member may resume and go on with his 
speech, the assembly being presumed,, unless some 
further motion is made, to be satisfied; but if 
any two members think it necessary, then the 
sense of the assembly must be taken by vote, the 
member withdrawing, and such further proceed- 
ings had in relation to punishing the member, as 
may be thought necessary and proper. 

184. If offensive words are not taken no- 
tice of at the time they are spoken, but the 
member is allowed to finish his speech, and then 
any other person speaks, or any other matter of 
business intervenes, before notice is taken of the 
words which gave offense, the words are not to 
be written down, or the member using thera 
censured. 

CHAPTER Xni, 
The Question. 

185. When any proposition is made to a de- 
liberative assembly, it is called a motion ; when it 
is stated or propounded to the assembly for their 
acceptance or rejection, it is denominated a que, 

^ The words, as written down, may be amended so as 
conform to what the assembly thinks to be the truth. 



I- 



:ir 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



361 



Hon; and, v/hen adopted, it becomes the order ^ 
resolution, or vote^ of the assembly. 

186. When any proposition, whether princi- 
pal, subsidiary, or incidental, or of whatever 
nature it may be, is made, seconded, and stated, 
if no alteration is proposed, or if it admits of 
none, or if it is amended, and the debate upon 
it, if any, appears to be brought to a close, the 
presiding officer then inquires whether the assem- 
bly is ready for the question ; and, if no person 
rises, the question is then stated, and the votes of 
the assembly taken upon it. Strictly speaking, 
no question can arise in a deliberative assembly 
without a motion being first made and seconded. 

187. The question is not always stated to the 
assembly in the precise form in which it arises or 
is introduced; thus, for example, when a mem- 
ber presents a petition, or the chairman of a com- 
mittee offers a report, the question which arises, 
if no motion is made, is, Shall the petition or the 
report be received? and so, when the previous 
question is moved, it is stated in this form, Shall 
the main question be now put ? the question being 
stated, in all cases, in the form i i which it will 
appear on the journal, if it passes in the affirm- 
ative. 

188. In matters of trifling importance, or 
which are generally of course, such as receiving 
petitions and reports, withdrawing motions, read- 
ing papers, etc., the presiding '?>fficer most com- 
monly supposes or takes for granted the consent 
of the assembly, where no objection is expressed, 
and does not go through the formality of taking 
the question by a vote. But if, after a vote has 
been taken in this informal way and declared, 
any member rises to object, the presiding officer 
should consider everything that has passed as 
nothing, and at once go back and pursue the 
regular course of proceeding. 

189. The question being stated by the presid- 
jing officer, he first puts it in the affirmative, 
namely : As many as are of the opinion that 
[repeating the words of the question] say Aye ; 
and immediately all the members who are of that 
opinion answer Aye. The presiding officer then 
puts the question negatively : As many as are of 
a different opinion^ say No ; and thereupon all 



the members who are of that opinion answer No, 
The presiding officer judges by his ear which side 
has ** the more voices," and decides accordingly 
that the ayes have it, or the noes have it, as the 
case may be. If the presiding officer is doubtful 
as to the majority of voices, he may put the ques- 
tion a second time ; and if he is still unable to 
decide, or if, having decided according to his 
judgment, any member rises and declares that he 
believes the ayes or the noes (whichever it may 
be) have it, contrary to the declaration of the 
presiding officer,^ then the presiding officer 
directs the assembly to divide, in order that the 
members on the one side and the other may be 
counted. All divisions, if called at all, must be 
called and taken immediately after the announce- 
ment from the chair. 

190. In some of our legislative assemblies, and 
especially in those of the New England States, 
the votes are given by the members holding up 
their right hands, first those in the affirmative, 
and then those in the negative, of the question. 

191. When a division of the assembly takes 
place, the presiding officer sometimes directs the 
members to range themselves on different sides of 
the assembly-room, and either counts them him- 
self, or they are counted by tellers appointed by 
him for the purpose, or by monitors permanently 
appointed for that and other purposes ; or the 
members rise in their seats, first on the affirma- 
tive and then on the negative, and (standing un- 
covered) are counted in the same manner. When 
the members are counted by the presiding officer, 
he announces the numbers, and declares the re- 
sult. When they are counted by tellers or moni- 
tors, the tellers must first agree among themselves, 
and then the one who has told for the majority 
reports the numbers to the presiding officer, who 
thereupon declares the result. 

192. If the members are equally divided, it 
tlien becomes the duty of the presiding officer to 
give the casting vote ; in doing which he may, if 
he pleases, give his reasons. 

193. It is a general rule, that every member 
who is in the assembly-room at the time when 

» The most common expression is, " I doubt the vote j ' ' 
or, « That vote is doubted." 



362 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



the question is stated has not only the right, but 
is bound, to vote ; and, on the other hand, that 
no member can vote who was not in the room at 
that time. 

194. Another form of taking the question, 
which is peculiar to the legislative bodies of the 
United States, is called taking the question by 
yeas and nays. In order to take a question in 
this manner, it is stated on both sides at once : 
namely, As many as are of opinion that, etc., will, 
when their names are called^ answer Yes ; and, 
As ma7iy as are of a different opinion will, when 
their names are .called^ answer No. The roll of 
the assembly is then called over by the clerk ; 
and each member, as his name is called, rises in 
his place, and answers yes or no, and the clerk 
notes the answer as the roll is called.^ When the 
roll has been gone through, the clerk reads over 
first the names of those who have answered in the 
affirmative, and then the names of those who 
have answered in the negative, in order tlmt if he 
has made any mistake in noting the answer, or if 
any member has made a mistake in his answer, 
the mistake of either may be corrected. The 
names having been thus read over, and the mis- 
takes, if any, corrected, the clerk counts the 
numbers on each side or announces the last 
figures representing them, and reports them to 
the presiding officer, who declares the result to 
the assembly. 

195. In any of the modes of taking a question, 
in which it is first put on one side and then on 
the other, it is no full question until the negative 
as well as the affirmative has been put. Con- 
sequently, until the negative has been put, it is 
in order for any member, in the same manner as 
if the division had not commenced, to rise and 
speak, make motions for amendment or other- 
wise, and thus renew the debate; and this 
whether such member was in the assembly-room, 
or not, when the question was put and partly 
taken. In such a case, the question must be put 
over again on the affirmative, as well as the nega- 

^ Sometimes the clerk places a figure in pencil opposite 
the name, at left or right according as the answer is yes or 
no. The last two numbers or figures represent the respec» 
tJve number of affirmative and negative votes. 



tive side ; but when a question is taken by yeas 
and nays, and the negative as well as the affirma- 
tive of the question is stated, and the voting on 
each side begins and proceeds at the same time, 
the question cannot be opened and the debate 
renewed after the voting has commenced. 

196. If any question arises in a point of order, 
as, for example, as to the right or the duty of a 
member to vote during a division, the presiding 
officer must decide it peremptorily, subject to 
the revision and correction of the assembly after 
the division is over. In a case of this kind, there 
can be no debate, though the presiding officer 
may if he pleases receive the assistance of mem- 
bers with their advice, which they are to give 
sitting, in order to avoid even the appearance of 
a debate ; but this can only be with the leave of 
the presiding officer, as otherwise the division 
might be prolonged to an inconvenient length; 
nor can ai.;^ question be taken, for otherwise 
there might be division upon division without 
end. 

197. When, from counting the assembly on a 
division, it appears that there is not a quorum 
present, there is no decision; but the matter in 
question continues in the same state in which it 
was before the division; and when afterwards 
resumed, whether on the same or on some future 
day, it must be taken up at that precise point. 

CHAPTER XIV. 
Reconsideration. 

198. It is a principle of parliamentary law, 
upon which many of the rules and proceedings 
previously stated are founded, that when a ques- 
tion has been once put to a deliberative assembly 
and decided, whether in the affirmative or nega- 
tive, that decision is the judgment of the assem- 
bly, and cannot again be brought into ques- 
tion. 

199. This principle holds equally, although the 
question proposed is not the identical question 
which has already been decided, but only its 
equivalent ; as, for example, where the negative 
of one question amounts to the affirmative of the 
other, and leaves no other alternative, these ques- 
tions are the equivalent of one another, and a 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



363 



decision of the one necessarily concludes the 
other. 

200. The inconvenience of this rule, which 
is still maintained in all its strictness in the 
British Parliament (though divers expedients are 
there resorted to, to counteract or evade it), has 
led to the introduction into the parliamentary 
practice of this country of the motion for recon- 
sideration; which, while it recognizes and up- 
holds the rule in all its ancient strictness, yet 
allows a deliberative assembly, for sufficient rea- 
sons, to relieve itself fh)m the embarrassment and 
inconvenience which would occasionally result 
from a strict enforcement of the rule in a par- 
ticular case. 

201. It has now come to be a common prac- 
tice in all our deliberative assemblies, and may 
consequently be considered as a principle of the 
common parliamentary law of this country, to 
reconsider a vote already passed, whether affirma- 
tively or negatively, when so desired. 

202. For this purpose a motion is made and 
seconded, in the usual manner, that such a vote 
be reconsidered j and if this motion prevails, the 
matter stands before the assembly in precisely the 
same state and condition, and the same questions 
are to be put in relation to it, as if the vote re- 
considered had never been passed. Thus, if an 
amendment by inserting words is moved and 
rejected, the same amendment cannot be moved 
again, but the assembly may reconsider the vote 
by which it was rejected ; and then the question 
will recur on the amendment, precisely as if the 
former vote had never been passed. 

203. It is usual in legislative bodies to regu- 
late by a special rule the time, manner, and by 
whom a motion to reconsider may be made ; but 
where there is no special rule on the subject, a 
motion to reconsider must be considered in the 
same light as any other motion, and as subject to 
no other rules. On the motion to reconsider, 
the whole subject is as much open for debate as 
if it had not been discussed at all ; and, if the 
motion prevail, the subject is again open for de- 
bate on the oricrinal motion, in the same manner 
as if that motion had never been put to the 
question. 



CHAPTER XV. 
Committees. 

Section I. Their Nature and Functions. 

204. It is usual in all deliberative assemblies 
to prepare matters to be acted upon in the assem- 
bly, by means of committees composed either of 
members specially selected for the particular 
occasion, or appointed beforehand for all mat- 
ters of the same nature. Committees of the first 
kind are usually called select, the others standing 
committees. A committee which is composed of 
all the members of the assembly is denominated 
a committee of the whole. 

205. The advantages of proceeding in this 
mode are manifold. It enables a deliberative 
assembly to do many things which, from its num- 
bers, it would othenvise be unable to do; to 
accomplish a much greater quantity of business, 
by dividing it among the members, than could 
possibly be accomplished if the whole body were 
obliged to devote itself to each particular subject. 

206. The powers and functions of commit- 
tees depend chiefly upon the general authority and 
particular instructions given them by the assem- 
bly at the time of their appointment ; but they 
may also be, and very often are, further instructed I 
whilst they are in the exercise of their functions ; 
and sometimes it even happens that these addi- 
tional instructions wholly change the nature of a 
committee, by charging it with inquiries quite 
different from those for which it was originally 
established. 

Sect. II. Their Appointment. 

207. In the appointment of select commit- 
tees, the first thing to be done is to fix upon the 
number. This is usually effected in the same 
manner that blanks are filled ; namely, by mem- 
bers proposing, without the formality of a motion, 
such numbers as they please, which are then 

: separately put to the question, beginning with the 
I largest, and going regularly through to the 
: smallest, until the assembly comes to a vote. 

208. The number being settled,^ there are 
three modes of selecting the members ; to wit, 
by the appointment of the presiding officer, by 



364 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



ballot, and by nomination and vote of the as- 
sembly. 

209. In deliberative assemblies whose sittings 
are of considerable length, as legislative bodies, 
it is usual to provide by a standing rule, that, 
unless otherwise ordered in a particular case, all 
committees shall be named by the presiding 
officer. Sometimes also the rule fixes the number 
of which, unless otherwise ordered, committees 
shall consist. 

210. When a committee is ordered to be 
appointed by ballot, the members are chosen by 
the assembly, either singly or all together, as 
may be ordered, in the same manner that other 
elections are made. 

211. When a committee is directed to be 
appointed by nomination and vote, the names of 
the members proposed are put to the question 
singly, and approved or rejected by the assembly 
by a vote taken in the usual manner. When the 
nomination is directed to be made at large, the 
presiding officer calls upon the assembly to nomi- 
nate ; and, names being mentioned accordingly, 
he puts to vote the first name he hears. 

212. It is also a compendious mode of ap- 
pointing a committee, to revive one which has 
already discharged itself by a report; or by 
charging a committee appointed for one pur- 
pose, with some additional duty of the same or 
'i different character. 

213. In regard to the appointment of commit- 
tees, so far as the selection of the members is 
concerned, it is a general rule in legislative 
Dodies, when a bill is to be referred, that none 
•/ho speak directly against the body of it are to 
oe of the committee, for the reason that he who 
v^^ould totally destroy will not amend ; but that, 
for the opposite reason, those who only take 
<?xceptions to some particulars in the bill are to 
'^e of the committee. 

214. It is customary, in all deliberative assem- 
. lies, to constitute a committee of such persons 
(^he mover and seconder of a measure being of 
' wse appointed), a majority of whom, at least, 
are favorably inclined to the measure proposed. 

215. When a committee has been appointed 
In reference to a particular subject, it is the duty 



of the secretary of the assembly to make out a 
list of the members, together with a certified 
copy of the authority or instructions under which 
they are to act, and to give the papers to the 
member first named on the list of the committee, 
if convenient ; but, otherwise, to any other mem- 
ber of the committee. 



Sect. III. Their Organization and Manner 
Of Proceeding. 

216. The person first named on a committee 
acts as its chairman, or presiding officer, so far 
as relates to the preliminary steps to be taken, 
and is usually permitted to do so through the 
whole proceedings; but this is a matter of 
courtesy, every committee having a right to elect 
its own chairman, who presides over it, and makes 
the report of its proceedings to the assembly. 

217. A committee is properly to receive direc- 
tions from the assembly, as to the time and place 
of its meeting, and cannot regularly sit at any 
other time or place; and it maybe ordered to 
sit immediately, whilst the assembly is sitting, 
and make its report forthwith. 

218. When no directions are given, a commit- 
tee may select its own time and place of meeting ; 
but, without a special order to that effect, it is 
not at liberty to sit whilst the assembly sits ; and, 
if a committee is sitting when the assembly comes 
to order after an adjournment, it is the duty of 
the chairman to rise instantly, on being certified 
of it, and, with the other members, to attend the 
service of the assembly. 

219. In regard to its forms of proceeding, a 
committee is essentially a miniature assembly : a 
majority of the members is necessary to consti- 
tute a quorum for business, unless a larger or 
smaller number has been fixed by the assembly 
itself; and a committee has full power over what- 
ever may be committed to it, except that it is not 
at liberty to change the title or subject. 

220. When a committee is ordered to meet 
at a particular time, and it fails of doing so for 
any cause, the committee is closed, and cannot 
act without being newly directed to sit. 

221. Disorderly words spoken in a committee 
must be written down in the same manner as in 



^RY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



:the assembly; but the committee, as such, can do 
rothing more than report them to the assembly 
for its animadversion ; neither can a committee 
punish disorderly conduct of any other kind, but 
must report it to the assembly. 

222. When any paper is before a committee 
to be considered, the course for it is the same as 
[if it were before the assembly ^ but the same 

:tness in adhering to rules does not seem so 
^necessary in a committee as in the assembly. 

223. If the paper before a committee is one 
rhich has originated with the committee, ques- 
tions are put on amendments proposed, but not 
on agreeing to the several paragraphs of which it 
is composed, separately, as they are gone through 
with; this being reserved for the close, when a 
question is to be put on the whole, for agreeing 
to the paper as amended or unamended. 

224. If the paper be one which has been re- 
ferred to the committee, they proceed as in the 
other case to put questions of amendment, if 
proposed, but no final question on the whole; 
because all parts of the paper, having been passed 
upon if not adopted by the assembly as the basis 
of its action, stand of course, unless altered or 
struck out by a vote of the assembly. 

5Z25. In the case of a paper originating with a 
committee, they may erase or interline it as much 
as they please ; though, when finally agreed to, it 
oi^ght to be reported in a clear draft, fairly writ- 
ten, without erasure or interlineation. 

226. But, in the case of a paper referreu to a 
committee, they are not at liberty to erase, inter- 
line, blot, disfigure, or tear it in any manner; but 
they must in a separate paper set down the 
amendments they have agreed to report, stating 
the words which are to be inserted or omitted, 
and the places where the amendments are to be 
made, by references to the paragraph or section, 
lin», and word. 

227. If the amendments agreed to are very 
numerous and minute, the committee may report 
them altogether, in the form of a new and 
amended draft. 

228. When a committee has gone through the 
paper, or agreed upon a report on the subject 
which has been referred to them, it is then moved 



by some member, and thereupon voted^ that the 
committee rise, and that the chairman or some 
other member make their report to the assembly 

Sect. IV. Their Report. 

229. When the report of a committee is to be 
made, the chairman, or member appointed to 
make the report, standing in his place, informs 
the assembly that the committee to whom was 
referred such a subject or paper have, according 
to order, had the same under consideration, and 
have directed him to make a report thereon, or 
-to report the same with sundry amendments, or 
without amendment^ as the case may be, which 
he is ready to do when the assembly shall please ; 
and he or any other member may then move that 
the report be now received. On this motion be- 
ing made, the question is put whether the assem- 
bly will receive the report at that time ; and a 
vote passes accordingly, either to receive It then, 
or fixing upon some future time for its reception. 

230. A minority report is not recognized as a 
report of the committee, or acted upon as such : 
it is received by courtesy, and allowed to accom- 
pany the report, as representing the opinions of 
the minority ; and, in order to its being adopted 
by the assembly, it must be moved as an amend- 
ment to the report, when that comes to be con- 
sidered. _ 

^ 

231. At the time the report is to be received, 
the chairman reads it in his place, and then de- 
livers it, together with all the papers connected 
with it, to the clerk at the table; where it is 
again read, and then lies on the table until the 
time assigned, or until it suits the convenience 
of the assembly to take it up for consideration. 
In practice, however, a report, if of any consider- 
able length, is seldom read, either by the chair- 
man in his place or by the clerk at the table, 
until it is taken up for consideration. In legis- 
lative assemblies, the printing of reports generally 
renders the reading of them unnecessary. 

232. The report of a committee being made 
and received, the committee is dissolved, and 
can act no more without a new power, and the 
report becomes the basis of future proceedings of 
the assembly ; but their authority may be revived 



PARLIAMENTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



by a vote, and the same matter recommitted to 
' aem. If a report, when offered to the assembly, 
■ not received, the committee is not thereby dis- 
«:harged, but may be ordered to sit again, and a 
time and place appointed accordingly; or the 
assembly may recommit to a different com- 
mittee. 

233. At the time assigned for the considera- 
tion of a report, it may be treated and disposed 
of precisely like any other proposition (48 to 
66) ; and may be amended in the same manner 
(67 to 107), both in the preliminary statement, 
reasoning, or opinion, if it contain any, and in 
the resolutions or other propositions with which 
it concludes. 

234. The final question on a report, v/hatever 
form it may have, is usually stated on its accept- 
ance ; and, when accepted, the whole report is 
idopted by the assembly, becoming the act of 
r,he assembly, in the same manner as if done 
originally by the assembly itself, without the in- 
tervention of a committee. 

Sect. V. Committee of the Whole. 

235. When a subject has been ordered to be 
referred to a committee of the whole, the form 
of going from the assembly into committee is, 
for the presiding officer, at the time appointed 
for the committee to sit, on motion made and 
seconded for the purpose, to put the question that 
the assembly do now resolve itself into a com- 
mittee of the whole, to take under consideration 
ijuch a matter, naming it. If this question is de- 
termined in the affirmative, the result is declared 
by the presiding officer, who, naming some mem- 
ber to act as chairman of the committee, then 
leaves the chair, and takes a seat elsewhere like 
any other member; and the person appointed 
chairman seats himself, not in the chair of the 
Assembly, but at the clerk's table. 

236. The chairman named by the presiding 
officer is generally acquiesced in by the commit- 
tee ; though, like all other committees, a com- 
*^iittee of the whole have a right to elect a chair- 
man for themselves ; some member, by general 
consent, putting the question. 

237. The same number of members is neces- 



sary to constitute a quorum of a committee of the 
whole, as of the assembly ; and, if the members 
present fall below a quorum at any time in jthe 
course of the proceedings, the chairman on a 
motion and question rises ; the presiding officer 
thereupon resumes the chair; and the chairman 
informs the assembly (he can make no other 
report) of the cause of the dissolution of the 
committee. 

238. V/hen the assembly is in committee of 
the whole, it is the duty of the presiding officer 
to remain in the assembly-room, in order to be 
at hand to resume the chair in case the commit- 
tee should be broken up by some disorder or for 
want of a quorum, or should rise, either to report 
progress, or to make their final report upon the 
matter committed to them. 

239. The clerk of the assembly does not act 
as clerk of the committee (this is the duty of the 
assistant clerk in legislative bodies), or record in 
his journal any of the proceediegs or votes of the 
committee, but only their report as made to the 
assembly. 

240. The proceedings in a committee of the 
whole, though in general similar to those in the 
assfc'-.nbly itself and in other committees, are yet 
different in some respects, the principal of which 
are the following : — ■ 

241. Mrsf. The previous question cannot be 
moved in a committee of the whole. The only 
means of avoiding an improper discussion is, to 
move that the committee rise; and, if it is appre- 
hended that the same discussson will be attempted 
on returning again into committee, the assembly 
can discharge the committee, and proceed itself 
with the business, keeping down any improper/ 
discussion by means of the previous question. 

242. Second. A committee of the whole can 
not adjourn, like other committees, to some other 
time or place, for the purpose of going on with 
and completing the consideration of the subject 
referred to them ; but, if their business is unfin- 
ished at the usual time for the assembly to ad- 
journ, or for any other reason they wish to pro- 
ceed no further at a particular time, the form of 
proceeding is, for some member to move that the 
committee rise, report progress, and ask leave to 



PARLIAMKNTARY RULES AND PRACTICE. 



367 



sit again. If leave to s. '. granted, the 

committee is of course dis o ed. 

243. Third, In a committee of the whole, 
every member may speak as often as he pleases, 
provided he can obtain the fioor ; whereas, in 
the assembly itself, no member can speak more 
than once on the same question. 

244. Fouj'th. A committee of the whole can- 
not refer any matter to another committee ; but 
other committees may and do frequently exercise 
their functions, and expedite their business, by 
means of sub-committees of their own members. 

245. Fifth. In a committee of the whole, the 
presiding officer of the assembly has a right to 
take a part in the debate and proceedings )n the 
same manner as any other member. 

246. Sixth. A committee of the whole, like 
a select committee, has no authority to punish a 
breach of order, whether of a member or stranger ; 
t)ut can only rise and report the matter to the 



assembly, who may proceed to punish the of- 
fender. 

247. When a committee of the whole have 
gone through with the matter referred to them, a 
member moves that the committee rise, and that 
the chairman (or some other member) report their 
proceedings to the assembly ; which being r-^- 
solved, the chairman rises and goes to his place, 
the presiding officer resumes the chair of the as- 
sembly, and the chairman informs him that the 
committee have gone through with the business 
referred to them, and that he is ready to make 
their report when the assembly shall think proper 
to receive it. 

248. If the assembly are ready to receive it at 
the time, they cry out, *' Now, now," whereupon 
the chairman proceeds ; if not then ready, some 
other time is mentioned, as ^'to-morrow" or 
'' Monday," and that time is fixed by vote or by 
general consent. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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